The 
Trilogy  of  Rome 

By 

ANTONIO  FOGAZZARO 

•' The  Greatest  of  Italian  Novelists  " 

(Authorized  American  Editions) 

1.  The  Patriot 

(Piccolo  Mondo  Antico) 

2.  The  Sinner 

(Piccolo  Mondo  Moderno) 

3.  The  Saint 

(II  Santo) 

HpHE  first  of  these  romances  is  an  impassioned 
-*•  story  of  lovers  struggling  to  break  the  barriers 
of  aristocratic  prejudice  that  oppose  their  marriage. 
It  is  also  a  story  of  patriotism — of  the  freeing  of 
Italy  from  the  Austrian  yoke. 

In  The  Sinner,  the  second  book  of  this  Trilogy, 
we  read  the  dramatic  story  of  Piero  Maironi,  the 
son  of  the  hero  of  The  Patriot,  and  of  his  love  for 
the  beautiful  Jeanne  Dessalle, — a  story  that  pre- 
sents a  vivid  picture  of  the  Italian  world  of  rank 
and  fashion,  and  involves,  too,  a  study  of  political 
and  ecclesiastical  life. 

In  The  Saint,  the  concluding  novel  in  the  series, 
the  hero  of  The  Sinner  and  the  lover  of  Jeanne 
Dessalle  appears  as  a  penitent  full  of  religious 
zeal  that  finds  a  double  outlet — in  asceticism 
and  works  of  mercy  and  in  an  attempt  to  reform 
the  Church  of  Rome  from  within. 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

New  York  London 


THE   SAINT 

(IL  SANTO) 


By 

ANTONIO  FOGAZZARO 

Translated  from  the  Italian  by 
M.  PRICHARD-AGNETTI 


With  an  Introduction  by 
WILLIAM  ROSCOE  THAYER 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW   YORK   AND  LONDON 

Cbe  fmtcfeerbocfcer  press 


COPYRIGHT,  1906 

BY 
G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

Published,  August,  1906 

Reprinted,  August,  1906;  September,  100' 

November,  1906  ;  November,  1908 

August,  1910 


tDc  *nlckttbochtr 


College 
Library 

PSL 


NOTE 

The  Saint,  though  it  is  independent  of  Fogazzaro's  earlier 
romances,  and  though  it  explains  itself  completely  when  read  in  its 
entirety,  will  perhaps  be  more  readily  understood  and  enjoyed. 
especially  in  the  opening  chapters,  if  a  few  words  are  said  with  re- 
gard to  certain  of  its  characters  who  have  made  an  appearance  in 
preceding  stories  by  the  same  author.  All  needful  information  of 
this  kind  is  conveyed  in  the  following  paragraph,  for  which  we  are 
indebted  to  Mrs.  Crawford's  article,  "The  Saint  in  Fiction,"  which 
appeared  in  The  Fortnightly  Keview  for  April,  1906: 

"Readers  of  Fogazzaro's  earlier  novels  will  recognise  in  Piero 
Maironi,  the  Saint,  the  son  of  the  Don  Franco  Maironi  who,  in  the 
Piccolo  Mondo  Antico,  gives  his  life  for  the  cause  of  freedom,  while 
he  himself  is  the  hero  of  the  Piccolo  Mondo  Moderno.  For  those 
who  have  not  read  the  preceding  volumes  it  should  be  explained  that 
his  wife  being  in  a  lunatic  asylum,  Maironi,  artist  and  dreamer,  had 
fallen  in  love  with  a  beautiful  woman  separated  from  her  husband, 
Jeanne  Dessalle,  who  professed  agnostic  opinions.  Recalled  to  a 
sense  of  his  faith  and  his  honour  by  an  interview  with  his  wife,  who 
sent  for  him  on  her  death-bed,  he  was  plunged  in  remorse,  and  dis- 
appeared wholly  from  the  knowledge  of  friends  and  relatives  after 
deposking  in  the  hands  of  a  venerable  priest,  Don  Giuseppe  Flores, 
a  sealed  paper  describing  a  prophetic  vision  concerning  his  life  that 
had  largely  contributed  to  his  conversion.  Three  years  are  supposed 
to  have  passed  between  the  close  of  the  Piccolo  Mondo  Moderno  and 
the  opening  of  //  Santo,  when  Maironi  is  revealed  under  the  name 
of  Benedetto,  purified  of  his  sins  by  a  life  of  prayer  and  emaciated 
by  the  severity  of  his  mortifications,  while  Jeanne  Dessalle,  listless 
and  miserable,  is  wandering  around  Europe  with  Noemi  d'Arxel. 
sister  to  Maria  Selva,  hoping  against  hope  for  the  reappearance  of 
Aer  former  lover,," 


204 I 827 


CONTENTS 

(Bv  WILLIAM  ROSCOE  THAYER) 


PAGE 

INTRODUCTION  ix 


CHAPTER 

I. — LAC  D'AMOUR     .....  i 

II. — DON  CLEMENTE            ....  37 

III. — A  NIGHT  OF  STORMS    ....  85 

IV. — FACE  TO  FACE    .          .          .          .          .125 

V.— THE  SAINT 181 

VI. — THREE  LETTERS           ....  270 

VII. — IN  THE  WHIRLPOOL  OF  THE  WORLD       .  285 

VIII. — JEANNE      ......  390 

IX. — IN  THE  WHIRLWIND  OP  GOD          .         .  437 


Til 


Introduction 

By  William   Roscoe  Thayer 

Author  of  "The  Dawn  of  Italian  Independence" 
ANTONIO    FOGAZZARO    AND    HIS    MASTERPIECE 


OENATOR  FOGAZZARO,  in  The  Saint,  has 
O  confirmed  the  impression  of  his  five  and 
twenty  years'  career  as  a  novelist,  and  now, 
through  the  extraordinary  power  and  pertinence  of 
this  crowning  work,  he  has  suddenly  become  an 
international  celebrity.  The  myopic  censors  of 
the  Index  have  assured  the  widest  circulation  of 
his  book  by  condemning  it  as  heretical.  In  the 
few  months  since  its  publication,  it  has  been  read 
by  hundreds  of  thousands  of  Italians;  it  has 
appeared  in  French  translation  in  the  Revue  des 
Deux  Monde s  and  in  German  in  the  Hochland; 
and  it  has  been  the  storm  centre  of  religious  and 
literary  debate.  Now  it  will  be  sought  by  a 
still  wider  circle,  eager  to  see  what  the  doctrines 
are,  written  by  the  leading  Catholic  layman  in 
Italy,  at  which  the  Papal  advisers  have  taken 
fright.  Time  was  when  it  was  the  books  of  the 


x  The  Saint 

avowed  enemies  of  the  Church — of  some  mocking 
Voltaire,  some  learned  Renan,  some  impassioned 
Michelet — which  they  thrust  on  the  Index;  now 
they  pillory  the  Catholic  layman  with  the  largest 
following  in  Italy,  one  who  has  never  wavered 
in  his  devotion  to  the  Church.  Whatever  the 
political  result  of  their  action  may  be,  they  have 
made  the  fortune  of  the  book  they  hoped  to 
suppress;  and  this  is  good,  for  The  Saint  is  a  real 
addition  to  literature. 

Lovers  of  Italy  have  regretted  that  foreigners 
should  judge  her  contemporary  ideals  and  literary 
achievements  by  the  brilliant,  but  obscene  and 
degenerate  books  of  Gabriele  d'Anmmzio.  Such 
books,  the  products  of  disease  no  matter  what 
language  they  may  be  written  in,  quickly  circulate 
from  country  to  country.  Like  epidemics  they 
sweep  up  and  down  the  world,  requiring  no 
passports,  respecting  no  frontiers,  while  benefits 
travel  slowly  from  people  to  people,  and  often 
lose  much  in  the  passage.  D'Annunzio,  speaking 
the  universal  language — Sin, — has  been  accepted 
as  the  typical  Italian  by  foreigners  who  know 
Carducci  merely  as  a  name  and  have  perhaps 
never  heard  of  Fogazzaro.  Yet  it  is  in  these 
men  that  the  better  genius  of  modern  Italy 
has  recently  expressed  itself.  Carducci 's  inter- 
national reputation  as  the  foremost  living  poet 
in  Europe  and  a  literary  critic  of  the  first  class 
gains  slowly,  but  its  future  is  secure.  Thanks 
to  the  wider  circulating  medium  of  fiction,  Fogaz- 


Introduction  xi 

zaro's  name  s  a  household  word  in  thousands  of 
Italian  families,  and  he  combines  in  his  genius 
so  many  rare  and  important  strands  that  the 
durability  of  his  literary  renown  cannot  be 
questioned. 

II 

Antonio  Fogazzaro,  the  most  eminent  Italian 
novelist  since  Manzoni,  was  born  at  Vicenza  on 
March  25th,  1842.  He  was  happy  in  his  parents, 
his  father,  Mariano  Fogazzaro,  being  a  man  of  re- 
fined tastes  and  sound  learning,  while  his  mother, 
Teresa  Barrera,  united  feminine  sweetness  with 
wit  and  a  warm  heart.  From  childhood  they 
influenced  all  sides  of  his  nature,  and  when  the 
proper  time  came  they  put  him  in  charge  of 
a  wise  tutor,  Professor  Zanella,  who  seems  to 
have  divined  his  pupil's  talents  and  the  best  way 
to  cultivate  them.  Young  Fogazzaro,  having 
completed  his  course  in  the  classics  went  on  to 
the  study  of  the  law,  which  he  pursued  first  in 
the  University  of  Padua  and  then  at  Turin, 
where  his  father  had  taken  up  a  voluntary 
exile.  For  Vicenza,  during  the  forties  and  fifties, 
lay  under  Austrian  subjection,  and  any  Italian 
who  desired  to  breathe  freely  in  Italy  had  to 
seek  the  liberal  air  of  Piedmont. 

Fogazzaro  received  his  diploma  in  due  season, 
and  began  to  practise  as  advocate,  but  in  that 
casual  way  common  to  young  men  who  know 
that  their  real  leader  is  not  Themis  but  Apollo. 


xii  The  Saint 

Erelong  he  abandoned  the  bar  and  devoted  him- 
self with  equal  enthusiasm  to  music  and  poetry, 
for  both  of  which  he  had  unusual  aptitude. 
Down  to  1 88 1  he  printed  chiefly  volumes  of 
verse  which  gave  him  a  genuine,  if  not  popular 
reputation.  In  that  year  he  brought  out  his  first 
romance,  Malombra,  and  from  time  to  time 
during  the  past  quarter  of  a  century  he  has 
followed  it  with  Daniele  C art-is,  II  Mister o  del 
Poeta,  Piccolo  Mondo  Antico,  Piccolo  Mondo 
Moderno,  and  finally,  in  the  autumn  of  1905, 
//  Santo.  This  list  by  no  means  exhausts  his 
productivity,  for  he  has  worked  in  many  fields, 
but  it  includes  the  books  by  which,  gradually  at 
first,  and  with  triumphant  strides  of  late,  he  has 
come  into  great  fame  in  Italy  and  has  risen  into 
the  small  group  of  living  authors  who  write  for 
a  cosmopolitan  public. 

For  many  years  past  Signor  Fogazzaro  has 
dwelt  in  his  native  Vicenza,  the  most  honoured 
of  her  citizens,  round  whom  has  grown  up  a  band 
of  eager  disciples,  who  look  to  him  for  guidance 
not  merely  in  matters  intellectual  or  aesthetic,  but 
in  the  conduct  of  life.  He  has  conceived  of  the 
career  of  man  of  letters  as  a  great  opportunity, 
not  as  a  mere  trade.  Nothing  could  show  better 
his  high  seriousness  than  his  waiting  until  the  age 
of  thirty-nine  before  publishing  his  first  novel,  un- 
less it  be  the  restraint  which  led  him,  after  having 
embarked  on  the  career  of  novelist  to  devote  four 
or  five  years  on  the  average  to  his  studies  in  fiction. 


Introduction  xiii 

So  his  books  are  ripe,  the  fruits  of  a  deliberate 
and  rich  nature,  and  not  the  windfalls  of  a  mere 
literary  trick.  And  now  the  publication  of  The 
Saint  confirms  all  his  previous  work,  and  en- 
titles him,  at  a  little  more  than  threescore  years, 
to  rank  among  the  few  literary  masters  of  the 
time. 

Ill 

Many  elements  in  The  Saint  testify  to  its  im- 
portance; but  these  would  not  make  it  a  work 
of  art.  And  after  all  it  is  as  a  work  of  art  that  it 
first  appeals  to  readers,  who  may  care  little  for 
its  religious  purport.  It  is  a  great  novel — so 
great,  that,  after  living  with  its  characters,  we 
cease  to  regard  it  as  a  novel  at  all.  It  keeps  our 
suspense  on  the  stretch  through  nearly  five  hun- 
dred pages.  Will  the  Saint  triumph — will  love 
victoriously  claim  its  own?  We  hurry  on,  at  the 
first  reading,  for  the  solution;  then  we  go  back 
and  discover  in  it  another  world  of  profound  in- 
terest. That  is  the  true  sign  of  a  masterpiece. 

In  English  we  have  only  John  Inglesant  and 
Robert  Elsmere  to  compare  it  with;  but  such  a 
comparison,  though  obviously  imperfect,  proves 
at  once  how  easily  The  Saint  surpasses  them  both, 
not  merely  by  the  greater  significance  of  its 
central  theme,  but  by  its  subtler  psychology, 
its  wider  horizon,  its  more  various  contacts  with 
life.  Benedetto,  the  Saint,  is  a  new  character 
in  fiction,  a  mingling  of  St.  Francis  and  Dr. 


xiv  The  Saint 

Dollinger,  a  man  of  to-day  in  intelligence,  a 
medieval  in  faith.  Nothing  could  be  finer  than 
the  way  in  which  Signer  Fogazzaro  depicts  hit, 
zeal,  his  ecstasies,  his  visions,  his  depressions, 
his  doubts;  shows  the  physical  and  mental  re- 
actions ;  gives  us,  in  a  word,  a  study  in  religious 
morbid  psychology — for,  say  what  we  will,  such 
abnormalities  are  morbid — without  rival  in  fiction. 
We  follow  Benedetto's  spiritual  fortunes  with  as 
much  eagerness  as  if  they  were  a  love  story. 

And  then  there  is  the  love  story.  Where  shall 
one  turn  to  find  another  like  it?  Jeanne  seldom 
appears  in  the  foreground,  but  we  feel  from  first 
to  last  the  magnetism  of  her  presence.  There  is 
always  the  possibility  that  at  sight  or  thought 
of  her  Benedetto  may  be  swept  back  from  his 
ascetic  vows  to  the  life  of  passion.  Their  first 
meeting  in  the  monastery  chapel  is  a  masterpiece 
of  dramatic  climax,  and  Benedetto's  temptation 
in  her  carriage,  after  the  feverish  interview  with 
the  cabinet  officer,  is  a  marvel  of  psychological 
subtlety.  Both  scenes  illustrate  Signor  Fogaz- 
zaro's  power  to  achieve  the  highest  artistic  results 
without  exaggeration.  This  naturalness  is  the 
more  remarkable  because  the  character  of  a  saint 
is  unnatural  according  to  our  modern  point  of 
view.  We  have  a  healthy  distrust  of  ascetics, 
whose  anxiety  over  their  soul's  condition  we 
properly  regard  as  a  form  of  egotism;  and  we 
know  how  easily  the  unco'  guid  become  prigs. 
Fogazzaro's  hero  is  neither  an  egotist  of  the 


Introduction  *v 

ordinary  cloistef~ variety,  nor  a  prig.  That  our 
sympathy  goes  out  to  Jeanne  and  not  to  him 
shows  that  we  instinctively  resent  the  sacrifice  of 
the  deepest  human  cravings  to  sacerdotal  pre- 
scriptions. The  highest  ideal  of  holiness  which 
medievals  could  conceive  does  not  satisfy  us. 

Why  did  Signer  Fogazzaro  in  choosing  his 
hero  revert  to  that  outworn  type?  He  sees  very 
clearly  how  many  of  the  Catholic  practices  are 
what  he  calls  "  ossified  organisms. "  Why  did  he 
set  up  a  lay  monk  as  a  model  for  aoth  century 
Christians  who  long  to  devote  their  lives  to  up- 
lifting their  fellow-men?  Did  he  not  note  the 
artificiality  of  asceticism — the  waste  of  energy 
that  comes  with  fasts  and  mortification  of  the 
flesh  and  morbidly  pious  excitement?  When 
asked  these  questions  by  his  followers  he  replied 
that  he  did  not  mean  to  preach  asceticism  as  a 
rule  for  all;  but  that  in  individual  cases  like 
Benedetto's,  for  instance,  it  was  a  psychological 
necessity.  Herein  Signor  Fogazzaro  certainly 
discloses  his  profound  knowledge  of  the  Italian 
heart — of  that  heart  from  which  in  its  early 
medieval  vigour  sprang  the  Roman  religion,  with 
its  message  of  renunciation.  Even  the  Renais- 
sance and  the  subsequent  period  of  scepticism 
have  not  blotted  out  those  tendencies  that  date 
back  more  than  a  thousand  years:  so  that  to- 
day, if  an  Italian  is  engulfed  in  a  passion  of  self- 
sacrifice,  he  naturally  thinks  first  of  asceticism 
as  the  method.  Among  Northern  races  a  similar 


xvi  The  Saint 

religious  experience  does  not  suggest  tiair  shirts 
and  debilitating  pious  orgies  (except  among 
Puseyites  and  similar  survivals  from  a  different 
epoch);  it  suggests  active  work,  like  that  of 
General  Booth  of  the  Salvation  Army. 

No  one  can  gainsay,  however,  the  superb  artis- 
tic effects  which  Signer  Fogazzaro  attains  through 
his  Saint's  varied  experiences.  He  causes  to 
pass  before  you  all  classes  of  society, — from  the 
poorest  peasant  of  the  Subiaco  hills,  to  duchesses 
and  the  Pope  himself, — some  incredulous,  some 
mocking,  some  devout,  some  hesitating,  some 
spell-bound,  .in  the  presence  of  a  holy  man. 
The  fashionable  ladies  wish  to  take  him  up  and 
make  a  lion  of  him;  the  superstitious  kiss  the 
hem  of  his  garment  and  believe  that  he  can 
work  miracles,  or,  in  a  sudden  revulsion,  they 
jeer  him  and  drive  him  away  with  stones.  And 
what  a  panorama  of  ecclesiastical  life  in  Italy! 
What  a  collection  of  priests  and  monks  and 
prelates,  and  with  what  inevitableness  one  after 
another  turns  the  cold  shoulder  on  the  volunteer 
who  dares  to  assert  that  the  test  of  religion  is 
conduct!  There  is  an  air  of  mystery,  of  intrigue, 
of  secret  messages  passing  to  and  fro — the  at- 
mosphere of  craft  which  has  hung  round  the 
ecclesiastical  institution  so  many,  many  cen- 
turies. Few  scenes  in  modern  romance  can 
match  Benedetto's  interview  with  the  Pope — the 
pathetic  figure  who,  you  feel,  is  in  sad  truth  a 
prisoner,  not  of  the  Italian  Government,  but  of 


Introduction  xvii 

the  crafty,  able,  remorseless  cabal  of  cardinals 
who  surround  him,  dog  him  with  eavesdroppers, 
edit  his  briefs,  check  his  benign  impulses,  and 
effectually  prevent  the  truth  from  penetrating 
to  his  lonely  study.  Benedetto's  appeal  to  the 
Pope  to  heal  the  four  wounds  from  which  the 
Church  is  languishing  is  a  model  of  impassioned 
argument.  The  four  wounds,  be  it  noted,  are 
the  "spirit  of  falsehood,"  "the  spirit  of  clerical 
domination,"  "the  spirit  of  avarice,"  and  "the 
spirit  of  immobility."  The  Pope  replies  in  a 
tone  of  resignation;  he  does  not  disguise  his 
powerlessness ;  he  hopes  to  meet  Benedetto 
again — in  heaven! 


IV 


The  Saint  may  be  considered  under  many 
aspects — indeed,  the  critics,  in  their  efforts  to 
classify  it,  have  already  fallen  out  over  its  real 
character.  Some  regard  it  as  a  thinly  disguised 
statement  of  a  creed ;  others,  as  a  novel  pure  and 
simple;  others,  as  a  campaign  document  (in  the 
broadest  sense) ;  others,  as  no  novel  at  all,  but 
a  dramatic  sort  of  confession.  The  Jesuits  have 
had  it  put  on  the  Index;  the  Christian  Democrats 
have  accepted  it  as  their  gospel :  yet  Jesuits  and 
Christian  Democrats  both  profess  to  be  Catholics. 
Such  a  divergence  of  opinion  proves  conclusively 
that  the  book  possesses  unusual  power  and  that 
it  is  many-sided. 


The  Saint 

Instead  of  pitching  upon  one  of  these  views  as 
right  and  declaring  all  the  rest  to  be  wrong,  it  is 
more  profitable  to  try  to  discover  in  the  book 
itself  what  grounds  each  class  of  critics  finds  to 
justify  its  particular  and  exclusive  verdict. 

On  the  face  of  it  what  does  the  book  say? 
This  is  what  it  says:  That  Piero  Maironi,  a  man 
of  the  world,  cultivated  far  beyond  his  kind, 
after  having  had  a  vehement  love-affair  is  stricken 
with  remorse,  "experiences  religion,"  becomes 
penitent,  is  filled  with  a  strange  zeal — an  ineffable 
comfort — and  devotes  himself,  body,  heart,  and 
soul  to  the  worship  of  God  and  the  succour  of  his 
fellow-men.  As  Benedetto,  the  lay  brother,  he 
serves  the  peasant  populations  among  the  Sabine 
hills,  or  moves  on  his  errands  of  hope  and  mercy 
among  the  poor  of  Rome.  Everybody  recog- 
nises him  as  a  holy  man — "a  saint."  Perhaps, 
if  he  had  restricted  himself  to  taking  only  soup 
or  simple  medicines  to  the  hungry  and  sick,  he 
would  have  been  unmolested  in  his  philanthropy ; 
but  after  his  conversion,  he  had  devoured  the 
Scriptures  and  studied  the  books  of  the  Fathers, 
until  the  spirit  of  the  early,  simple,  untheologi- 
cal  Church  had  poured  into  him.  It  brought  a 
message  the  truth  of  which  so  stirred  him  that 
he  could  not  rest  until  he  imparted  it  to  his 
fellows.  He  preached  righteousness, — the  su- 
premacy of  conduct  over  ritual, — love  as  the  test 
and  goal  of  life;  but  always  with  full  acknow- 
ledgment of  Mother  Church  as  the  way  of  sal- 


Introduction  xix 

vation.  Indeed,  he  seems  neither  to  doubt  the 
impregnability  of  the  foundations  of  Christianity, 
nor  the  validity  of  the  Petrine  corner-stone; 
taking  these  for  granted  he  aims  to  live  the 
Christian  life  in  every  act,  in  every  thought. 
The  superstructure — the  practices  of  the  Catholic 
Church  to-day,  the  failures  and  sins  of  clerical 
society,  the  rigid  ecclesiasticism — these  he  must 
in  loyalty  to  fundamental  truth,  criticise,  and  if 
need  be,  condemn,  where  they  interfere  with  the 
exercise  of  pure  religion.  But  Benedetto  en- 
gages very  little  in  controversy;  his  method  is  to 
glorify  the  good,  sure  that  the  good  requires  only 
to  be  revealed  in  all  its  beauty  and  charm  in  order 
to  draw  irresistibly  to  itself  souls  that,  for  lack 
of  vision,  have  been  pursuing  the  mediocre  or 
the  bad. 

Yet  these  utterances,  so  natural  to  Benedetto, 
awaken  the  suspicions  of  his  superiors,  who — we 
cannot  say  without  cause — scent  heresy  in  them. 
Good  works,  righteous  conduct — what  are  these 
in  comparison  with  blind  subscription  to  ortho- 
dox formulas?  Benedetto  is  persecuted  not  by 
an  obviously  brutal  or  sanguinary  persecution, — 
although  it  might  have  come  to  that  except  for 
a  catastrophe  of  another  sort, — but  by  the  very 
finesse  of  persecution.  The  sagacious  politicians 
of  the  Vatican,  inheritors  of  the  accumulated 
craft  of  a  thousand  years,  know  too  much  to 
break  a  butterfly  on  a  wheel,  to  make  a  martyr 
of  an  inconvenient  person  whom  they  can  be 


xx  The  Saint 

rid  of  quietly.  Therein  lies  the  tragedy  of 
Benedetto's  experience,  so  far  at  least  as  we 
regard  him,  or  as  he  thought  himself,  an  instru- 
ment for  the  regeneration  of  the  Church. 

On  the  face  of  it,  therefore,  The  Saint  is  the 
story  of  a  man  with  a  passion  for  doing  good, 
in  the  most  direct  and  human  way,  who  found 
the  Church  in  which  he  believed,  the  Church 
which  existed  ostensibly  to  do  good  according 
to  the  direct  and  human  ways  of  Jesus  Christ, 
thwarting  him  at  every  step.  Here  is  a  conflict, 
let  us  remark  in  passing,  worthy  to  be  the  theme 
of  a  great  tragedy.  Does  not  Antigone  rest  on  a 
similar  conflict  between  Antigone's  simple  human 
way  of  showing  her  sisterly  affection  and  the 
rigid  formalism  of  the  orthodoxy  of  her  day? 


Or,  look  next  at  The  Saint  as  a  campaign 
document,  the  aspect  under  which  it  has  been 
most  hotly  discussed  in  Italy.  It  has  been 
accepted  as  the  platform,  or  even  the  gospel  of 
the  Christian  Democrats.  Who  are  they?  They 
are  a  body  of  the  younger  generation  of  Italians, 
among  them  being  a  considerable  number  of 
religious,  who  yearn  to  put  into  practice  the 
concrete  exhortations  of  the  Evangelists.  They 
are  really  carried  forward  by  that  ethical  wave 
which  has  swept  over  Western  Europe  and 
America  during  the  past  generation,  and  has 


Introduction 


resulted  in  "slumming,"  in  practical  social  service, 
in  all  kinds  of  efforts  to  improve  the  material 
and  moral  condition  of  the  poor,  quite  irre- 
spective of  sectarian  or  even  Christian  initi- 
ative. This  great  movement  began,  indeed, 
outside  of  the  churches,  among  men  and  women 
who  felt  grievously  the  misery  of  their  fellow- 
creatures  and  their  own  obligation  to  do  what 
they  could  to  relieve  it.  From  them,  it  has 
reached  the  churches,  and,  last  of  all,  the  Catholic 
Church  in  Italy.  No  doubt  the  spread  of  Social- 
ism, with  its  superficial  resemblance  to  some  of 
the  features  of  primitive  Christianity,  has  some- 
what modified  the  character  of  this  ethical 
movement  ;  so  far,  in  fact,  that  the  Italian  Christian 
Democrats  have  been  confounded,  by  persons 
with  only  a  blurred  sense  of  outlines,  with  the 
Socialists  themselves.  Whatever  they  may  be- 
come, however,  they  now  profess  views  in  regard 
to  property  which  separate  them  by  an  unbridge- 
able chasm  from  the  Socialists. 

In  their  zeal  for  their  fellow-men,  and  especially 
for  the  poor  and  down-trodden  classes,  they  find  the 
old  agencies  of  charity  insufficient.  To  visit 
the  sick,  to  comfort  the  dying,  to  dole  out  broth 
at  the  convent  gate,  is  well  ,  but  it  offers  no  remedy 
for  the  cause  behind  poverty  and  blind  remediable 
suffering.  Only  through  better  laws,  strictly  ad- 
ministered, can  effectual  help  come.  So  the  Chris- 
tian Democrats  deemed  it  indispensable  that  they 
should  be  free  to  influence  legislation. 


xxii  The  Saint 

At  this  point,  however,  the  stubborn  pro- 
hibition of  the  Vatican  confronted  them.  Since 
1870,  when  the  Italians  entered  Rome  and  es- 
tablished there  the  capital  of  United  Italy,  the 
Vatican  had  forbidden  faithful  Catholics  to  take 
part,  either  as  electors  or  as  candidates,  in  any 
of  the  national  elections,  the  fiction  being  that, 
were  they  to  go  to  the  polls  or  to  be  elected  to  the 
Chamber  of  Deputies,  they  would  thereby  recog- 
nise the  Royal  Government  which  had  destroyed 
the  temporal  power  of  the  Pope.  Then  what 
would  become  of  that  other  fiction — the  Pope's 
prisonership  in  the  Vatican — which  was  to  prove 
for  thirty  years  the  best  paying  asset  among 
the  Papal  investments?  So  long  as  the  Curia 
maintained  an  irreconcilable  attitude  towards 
the  Kingdom,  it  could  count  on  kindling  by  irri- 
tation the  sympathy  and  zeal  of  Catholics  all  over 
the  world.  In  Italy  itself  many  devout  Catholics 
had  long  protested  that,  as  it  was  through  the 
acquisition  of  temporal  power  that  the  Church 
had  become  worldly  and  corrupt,  so  through  the 
loss  of  temporal  power  it  would  regain  its  spiritual 
health  and  efficiency.  They  urged  that  the  Holy 
Father  could  perform  his  religious  functions  best 
if  he  were  not  involved  in  political  intrigues  and 
governmental  perplexities.  No  one  would  assert 
that  Jesus  could  have  better  fulfilled  his  mission 
if  he  had  been  king  of  Judea ;  why,  then,  should 
the  Pope,  the  Vicar  of  Jesus,  require  worldly 
pomp  and  power  that  his  Master  disdained? 


Introduction  xxiii 

Neither  Pius  IX  nor  Leo  XIII,  however,  was 
open  to  arguments  of  this  kind.  Incidentally, 
it  was  clear  that  if  Catholics  as  such  were  kept 
away  from  the  polls,  nobody  could  say  precisely 
just  how  many  they  numbered.  The  Vatican 
constantly  asserted  that  its  adherents  were  in 
a  majority — a  claim  which,  if  true,  meant  that 
the  Kingdom  of  Italy  rested  on  a  very  precarious 
basis.  But  other  Catholics  sincerely  deplored 
the  harm  which  the  irreconcilable  attitude  of 
the  Curia  caused  to  religion.  They  regretted  to 
see  an  affair  purely  political  treated  as  religious; 
to  have  the  belief  in  the  Pope's  temporal  power 
virtually  set  up  as  a  part  of  their  creed.  The 
Lord's  work  was  waiting  to  he  done;  yet  they 
who  ought  to  be  foremost  in  it  were  handicapped. 
Other  agencies  had  stepped  in  ahead  of  them. 
The  Socialists  were  making  converts  by  myriads ; 
skeptics  and  cynics  were  sowing  hatred  not  of  the 
Church  merely  but  of  all  religion.  It  was  time 
to  abandon  "the  prisoner  of  the  Vatican"  hum- 
bug, time  to  permit  zealous  Catholics,  whose 
orthodoxy  no  one  could  question,  to  serve  God 
and  their  fellow-men  according  to  the  needs  and 
methods  of  the  present  age. 

At  last,  in  the  autumn  of  1905,  the  new  Pope, 
Pius  X,  gave  the  faithful  tacit  permission,  if  he 
did  not  officially  command  them,  to  take  part  in 
the  elections.  Various  motives  were  assigned 
for  this  change  of  front.  Did  even  the  Ultra- 
montanes  realise  that,  since  France  had  repealed 


xxiv  The  Saint 

the  Concordat,  they  could  find  their  best  support 
in  Italy?  Or  were  they  driven  by  the  instinct 
of  self-preservation  to  accept  the  constitutional 
government  as  a  bulwark  against  the  incoming 
tide  of  Anarchism,  Socialism,  and  the  other 
subversive  forces?  The  Church  is  the  most 
conservative  element  in  Christendom;  in  a  new 
upheaval  it  will  surely  rally  to  the  side  of  any 
other  element  which  promises  to  save  society 
from  chaos.  These  motives  have  been  cited  to 
explain  the  recent  action  of  the  Holy  See,  but 
there  were  high-minded  Catholics  who  liked  to 
think  that  the  controlling  reason  was  religious — 
that  the  Pope  and  his  counsellors  had  at  last  been 
persuaded  that  the  old  policy  of  abstention 
wrought  irreparable  harm  to  the  religious  life 
of  millions  of  the  faithful  in  Italy. 

However  this  may  be,  Senator  Fogazzaro's 
book,  filled  with  the  Liberal  and  Christian  spirit, 
has  been  eagerly  caught  up  as  the  mouthpiece  of 
the  Christian  Democrats,  and  indeed  of  all  in- 
telligent Catholics  in  Italy,  who  have  always  held 
that  religion  and  patriotism  are  not  incompatible, 
and  that  the  Church  has  most  injured  itself  in  pro- 
longing the  antagonism.  In  this  respect,  The 
Saint,  like  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  and  similar  books 
which  crystallise  an  entire  series  of  ideals  or  sum 
up  a  crisis,  leaped  immediately  into  importance, 
and  seems  certain  to  enjoy,  for  a  long  time  to 
come,  the  prestige  that  crowns  such  works. 
Putting  it  on  the  Index  can  only  add  to  its  power. 


Introduction 


VI 

But  readers  who  imagine  that  this  aspect 
measures  the  significance  of  The  Saint  have  read 
the  surface  only.  The  probability  of  restoring 
friendly  relations  between  Church  and  State  is  a 
matter  of  concern  to  everybody  in  Italy;  but  of 
even  greater  concern  are  the  implications  which 
issue  from  Signer  Fogazzaro's  thought.  He  is 
an  evolutionist;  he  respects  the  higher  criticism; 
he  knows  that  religions,  like  states  and  secular 
institutions,  have  their  birth  and  growth  and 
inevitable  decay.  So  Catholicism  must  take 
its  course  in  the  human  circuit,  and  expect  sooner 
or  later  to  pass  away.  This  would  be  the  natural 
deduction  to  draw  from  the  premise  of  evolution. 
Signor  Fogazzaro,  however,  does  not  draw  it. 
He  conceives  that  Catholicism  contains  a  final 
deposit  of  truth  which  can  neither  be  super- 
seded, wasted,  nor  destroyed. 

"My  friends,"  says  Benedetto,  "you  say,  'We 
have  reposed  in  the  shade  of  this  tree  but  now  its 
bark  cracks  and  dries;  the  tree  will  die;  let  us 
go  in  search  of  other  shade.'  The  tree  will  not 
die.  If  you  had  ears,  you  would  hear  the  move- 
ment of  the  new  bark  forming,  which  will  have 
its  period  of  life,  will  crack,  will  dry  in  its  turn, 
because  another  bark  shall  replace  it.  The  tree 
does  not  die,  the  tree  grows.  " 

Through  thig  parable,  Signor  Fogazzaro  re- 
veals his  attitude,  which  it  appears,  does  not 


xxvi  The  Saint 

differ  from  that  proposed  by  many  Anglicans 
and  other  Protestants  towards  their  respective 
churches.  Herein  his  Saint  takes  on  the  largest 
significance.  He  is  a  religious  man  who  constantly 
praises  Reason,  and  urges  his  hearers  to  trust 
Reason;  but  who,  at  a  given  moment,  falls  back 
on  Faith,  cleaves  to  Faith,  insists  that  Faith 
alone  brings  its  own  warrant.  Hence  arise 
paradoxes,  hence  contradictions  which  elude  a 
reasonable  solution.  For  instance,  in  one  dis- 
course Benedetto  says:  "The  Catholic  Church, 
which  proclaims  itself  the  fountain  of  truth, 
opposes  to-day  the  search  for  Truth  when  it  is 
carried  on  on  its  own  foundations,  on  the  holy 
books,  on  the  dogmas,  on  its  asserted  infallibility. 
For  us  this  means  that  it  has  no  longer  faith 
in  itself.  The  Catholic  Church  which  proclaims 
itself  the  minister  of  Life,  to-day  shackles  and 
stifles  whatever  lives  youthfully  within  it,  and 
to-day  it  props  itself  on  all  its  decadent  and 
antiquated  usages."  Yet  a  little  farther  on  he 
exclaims:  "But  what  sort  of  faith  is  yours,  if 
you  talk  of  leaving  the  Church  because  certain 
antiquated  doctrines  of  its  heads,  certain  decrees 
of  the  Roman  congregations,  certain  ways  in  a 
pontiff's  government  offend  you?  What  sort  of 
sons  are  you  who  talk  of  renouncing  your  mother 
because  she  wears  a  garment  which  does  not 
please  you  ?  Is  the  mother's  heart  changed  by  a 
garment?  When,  bowed  over  her,  weeping,  you 
tell  your  infirmities  to  Christ  and  Christ  heals 


Introduction 

you,  do  you  think  about  the  authenticity  of  a 
passage  in  52.  John,  about  the  real  author  of  the 
Fourth  Gospel  or  about  the  two  Isaiahs?  When 
you  commune  with  Christ  in  the  sacrament  do 
the  decrees  of  the  Index  or  the  Holy  Office  disturb 
you  ?  When,  giving  yourself  up  to  Mother  Church, 
you  enter  the  shadows  of  death,  is  the  peace  she 
breathes  in  you  less  sweet  because  a  Pope  is 
opposed  to  Christian  Democracy?" 

So  far,  therefore,  as  Fogazzaro  is  the  spokesman 
of  loyal  yet  intelligent  Catholics,  he  shows  that 
among  them  also  the  process  of  theological  so- 
lution has  been  going  on.  Like  Protestants  who 
still  profess  creeds  which  they  do  not  believe, 
these  intelligent  Catholics  have  to  resort  to  strange 
devices — to  devices  which  to  a  looker-on  appear 
uncandid  if  not  insincere, — in  order  to  patch  up 
a  truce  between  their  reason  and  their  faith. 
This  insincerity  is  the  blight  of  the  present  age. 
It  is  far  more  serious  than  indifferentism,  or 
than  the  open  mockery  of  the  i8th  century  philo- 
sophers. So  long  as  it  lasts,  no  deep,  general 
religious  regeneration  will  be  possible.  Be  it 
remarked,  however,  that  Signer  Fogazzaro  him- 
self is  unaware  of  his  ambiguous  position;  being 
still  many  removes  from  Jowett,  the  typical 
Mr.  Facing-both-Ways  of  the  epoch. 

vn 

In  conclusion,  we  go  back  to  the  book  as  a 
work  of  art,  meaning  by  art  not  mere  artifice, 


xxviii  The  Saint 

but  that  power  which  takes  the  fleeting  facts  of 
life  and  endues  them  with  permanence,  with  deeper 
purports,  with  order  and  beauty.  In  this  sense, 
Signer  Fogazzaro  is  a  great  artist.  He  has 
the  gift  of  the  masters  which  enables  him  to  rise 
without  effort  to  the  level  of  the  tragic  crises. 
He  has  also  a  vein  of  humour,  without  which 
such  a  theme  as  his  could  hardly  be  successfully 
handled.  And  although  there  is,  by  measure, 
much  serious  talk,  yet  so  skilfully  does  he  bring 
in  minor  characters,  with  their  transient  side- 
lights, that  the  total  impression  is  that  of  a  book 
in  which  much  happens.  No  realist  could  exceed 
the  fidelity  with  which  Signer  Fogazzaro  outlines 
a  landscape,  or  fixes  a  passing  scene;  yet  being 
an  idealist  through  and  through,  he  has  pro- 
duced a  masterpiece  in  which  the  imagination 
is  sovereign. 

Such  a  book,  sprung  from  "  no  vain  or  shallow 
thought, "  holding  in  solution  the  hopes  of  many 
earnest  souls,  spreading  before  us  the  mighty 
spiritual  conflict  between  Medievalism  still  tri- 
umphant and  the  young  undaunted  Powers  of 
Light,  showing  us  with  wonderful  lifelikeness 
the  tragedy  of  man's  baffled  endeavour  to  establish 
the  Kingdom  of  God  on  earth,  and  of  woman's 
unquenchable  love,  is  a  great  fact  in  the  world- 
literature  of  our  time. 

CAMBRIDGE,  MASSACHUSETTS, 
April  35.  1906. 


THE  SAINT 


THE  SAINT 

CHAPTER  I 
LAC  D'AMOUR 

JEANNE  was  seated  by  the  window  with  the 
book  which  she  had  been  reading  open  upon 
her  lap.  She  gazed  pensively  into  the  oval  sheet 
of  leaden  water  slumbering  at  her  feet,  at  the 
passing  clouds,  casting  their  ever-changing  shad- 
ows on  the  little  villa,  on  the  deserted  garden, 
the  trees  of  the  opposite  bank,  the  distant  fields, 
on  the  bridge  to  the  left,  and  on  the  quiet 
roads,  which  lost  themselves  behind  the  Beguin- 
age,  and  on  the  slanting  roofs  of  Bruges,  grand, 
mysterious,  dead.  Could  it  be  that  VIntruse  of 
whom  she  had  just  been  reading,  that  fatal,  unseen 
visitor,  was  even  now  crossing  the  sepulchral 
city;  could  it  be  that  the  short  ripples  upon  the 
face  of  the  dark  water  were  her  shadow,  while 
she  herself  had  reached  the  threshold  of  the  villa, 
bringing  with  her  the  coveted  gift  of  eternal 
sleep!  The  church  bells  chimed  the  hour  of  five. 
High,  high  up.,  near  the  white  clouds,  magic 


a  The  Saint 

voices  of  innumerable  bells  sang  over  the  houses, 
the  squares,  the  streets  of  Bruges  that  melancholy 
incantation  which  renders  its  rest  eternal.  Jeanne 
felt  two  cool  hands  upon  her  eyes,  a  wave  of  per- 
fume touched  her  cheek,  a  breath  stirred  her 
hair,  whispering  "encore  une  intruse,"  and  then 
soft  lips  kissed  her.  She  did  not  seem  surprised; 
and,  raising  her  hand,  caressed  the  face  bending 
over  her,  saying:  "  Welcome,  Noemi.  Magarifos- 
si  tu  V  Intruse"  (Would  that  you  were  V  Intruse.) 

Noemi  failed  to  understand. 

"Magari,"  she  said.  "Is  that  Italian?  It 
sounds  like  Arabic.  Explain  at  once,  please." 

Jeanne  rose.  "You  would  not  understand  any 
better  if  I  did,"  she  said  with  a  smile.  "  Shall  we 
have  our  Italian  conversation  lesson  now?" 

"Yes,  with  pleasure,"  answered  Noemi. 

"Where  did  you  go  with  my  brother?" 

"To  the  Hospital  of  St.  John,  to  call  on 
Memling." 

"That 's  all  right;  let  us  talk  about  Memling. 
But  first  tell  me  whether  Carlino  made  you  a 
declaration?" 

The  girl  laughed.  "  Yes,  he  made  me  a  declara- 
tion of  war,  and  I  did  likewise  to  he." 

"To  him,  you  should  say.  I  wish  he  would 
fall  in  love  with  you,"  added  Jeanne  seriously. 
The  girl  frowned. 

"I  do  not,"  she  said. 

"  Why?  Is  he  not  charming,  brilliant,  cultured, 
and  distinguished?  He  is  very  wealthy  too, 


Lac  d' Amour  3 

you  know.  We  may  despise  riches,  but  after 
all  they  are  very  good  in  their  way. " 

Noemi  d'Arxel  placed  her  hands  on  her  friend's 
shoulders,  and  gazed  steadily  into  her  eyes.  The 
blue  questioning  eyes  were  grave  and  sad;  the 
brown  eyes,  thus  scrutinised,  bore  the  gaze  with 
firmness,  flashing  in  turn  defiance,  embarrassment, 
and  mirth. 

"Well,"  said  the  girl,  "I  enjoy  seeing  Memling 
with  Signer  Carlino,  playing  classical  music  with 
him,  discussing  a  Kempis  with  him,  although 
this  affection  he  has  recently  developed  for 
a  Kempis  seems  a  profanation,  when  you  consider 
that  he  believes  in  nothing.  Je  suis  catholique 
autant  qu'on  pent  Vdtre  lorsqu'on  ne  Vest  pas,  but 
when  I  hear  an  unbeliever  like  your  brother  read 
a  Kempis  so  feelingly,  I  very  nearly  lose  my 
faith  in  Christianity  as  well.  I  like  him  for  one 
other  reason,  dear,  because  he  is  your  brother. 
But  that  is  all !  Oh !  Jeanne  Dessalle  says  such 
strange  things  sometimes — such  strange  things! 
I  do  not  understand — I  really  do  not  understand. 
But  warte  nur,  du  Rathsel,  as  my  governess  used 
to  say. ;> 

"What  am  I  to  wait  for?" 

Noemi  threw  her  arm  round  her  friend's  neck, 
"I  will  drag  your  soul  with  so  fine  a  net 
that  it  will  bring  beautiful  great  pearls  to  the 
surface,  perhaps  some  sea-weed  as  well,  and  a 
little  mud  from  the  bottom,  or  even  a  very  tiny 
piceuvre. 


4  The  Saint 

"You  do  not  know  me,"  answered  Jeanne. 
"You  are  the  only  one  of  my  friends  who  does 
not  know  me. " 

"Of  course.  You  imagine  that  only  those 
who  adore  you  really  know  you?  Indeed,  this 
belief  that  everybody  adores  you  is  a  craze  of 
yours. " 

Jeanne  made  the  little  pouting  grimace  with 
which  all  her  friends  were  familiar. 

"What  a  foolish  girl,"  she  said;  but  at  once 
softened  the  expression  with  a  kiss  and  a  half-sad, 
half-quizzical  smile. 

"Women,  as  I  have  always  told  you,  do  adore 
me.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  do  not? " 

"Mais  point  du  tout,"  exclaimed  Noemi. 
Jeanne's  eyes  sparkled  with  mischief  and  kindness : 

"In  Italian  we  say:  Si,  di  tutto  cuore,"  she 
answered. 

The  Dessalles,  brother  and  sister,  had  spent 
the  preceding  summer  at  Maloja.  Jeanne 
striving  to  make  herself  a  pleasant  companion, 
and  hiding  as  best  she  could  her  incurable 
wound ;  Carlino  searching  out  traces  of  Nietzsche 
in  mystic  hours  round  Sils  Maria  or  in  worldly 
moments  flitting  like  a  butterfly  from  one  woman 
to  another,  frequently  dining  at  St.  Moritz,  or  at 
Pontresina,  making  music  with  a  military  attach^ 
of  the  German  Embassy  at  Rome,  or  with  Noemi 
d'Arxel,  and  discussing  religious  questions  with 
Noemi's  sister  and  brother-in-law  The  two 
d'Arxel  sisters,  orphans,  were  Belgian  by  birth, 


Lac  d' Amour  5 

but  of  Dutch  and  Protestant  ancestry.  The 
elder,  Maria,  after  a  peculiar  and  romantic  court- 
ship, had  married  the  old  Italian  philosopher 
Giovanni  Selva,  who  would  be  famous  in  his 
own  country,  did  Italians  take  a  deeper  interest 
in  theological  questions;  for  Selva  is  perhaps 
the  truest  representative  of  progressive  Catholic- 
ism in  Italy.  Maria  had  become  a  Roman  Catho- 
lic before  her  marriage.  The  Selvas  spent  the 
winter  in  Rome,  the  rest  of  the  year  at  Subiaco. 
Noemi,  who  had  remained  true  to  the  faith  of  her 
fathers,  divided  her  time  between  Brussels  and 
Italy.  Only  a  month  before,  at  the  end  of  March, 
at  Brussels,  death  had  claimed  the  old  governess, 
with  whom  she  had  lived.  Neither  Giovanni 
Selva  nor  his  wife  had  been  able  to  come  to  Noemi 
at  this  great  crisis,  for  Selva  was  seriously  ill  at 
the  time.  Jeanne  Dessalle,  who  had  become  much 
attached  to  Noemi,  persuaded  her  brother  to 
undertake  the  journey  to  Belgium,  a  country 
with  which  he  was  hitherto  unacquainted,  and 
then  offered  to  take  the  Selvas'  place  in  Brussels. 
It  thus  happened  that  towards  the  end  of  April 
Noemi  was  with  the  Dessalles  at  Bruges.  They 
occupied  a  small  villa  on  the  shore  of  the  little 
mirror  of  water  called  "  Lac  d' Amour."  Car  lino 
had  fallen  in  love  with  Bruges  and  especially  with 
the  Lac  d' Amour,  the  name  of  which  he  contem- 
plated giving  to  the  novel  he  dreamed  of  writing. 
As  yet,  however,  the  novel  existed  only  in  his 
brain,  while  he  lived  in  the  pleasant  anticipation 


6  The  Saint 

of  one  day  astonishing  the  world  with  an  ex- 
quisite and  original  work  of  art. 

"En  tout  cas,"  Noemi  replied — "not  with  all 
my  heart. " 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  am  thinking  of  giving  my  heart 
to  another  person." 

"To  whom?" 

"To  a  monk." 

Jeanne  shuddered,  and  Noemi,  to  whom  her 
friend  had  confided  the  story  of  her  hopeless  love 
for  the  man  who  had  disappeared,  buried  in  the 
hidden  solitude  of  a  cloister,  trembled  lest  she 
had  erred  in  thus  lightly  introducing  a  subject 
with  which  her  mind  was  much  occupied. 

"  By  the  way,  what  about  Memling, "  she 
said,  colouring  violently,  "we  were  going  to  talk 
about  Memling." 

She  spoke  in  French,  and  Jeanne  answered 
gently : 

"  You  know  you  must  speak  Italian. " 

Her  eyes  were  so  sad  and  despairing  that 
Noemi  took  no  notice  of  her  reproof,  and  con- 
tinued in  French,  saying  many  endearing  things, 
and  begging  for  a  loving  word  and  a  kiss.  Both 
were  willingly  bestowed.  Noemi  did  not  at  once 
succeed  in  restoring  her  friend  to  her  usual  calm ; 
but  Jeanne,  smoothing  back  Noemi's  hair  from 
her  brow  with  both  hands,  and  following  the 
caressing  gesture  with  her  eyes,  begged  her  gently 
not  to  be  afraid  that  she  had  wounded  her.  Sad 


Lac  d'Amour  7 

she  was  indeed,  but  that  was  no  new  thing.  True 
she  was  never  gay.  This  Noemi  admitted,  but 
to-day  the  cloud  of  sorrow  seemed  heavier  than 
ever.  Perhaps  it  was  the  fault  of  I'Intruse. 
Jeanne  said,  "Indeed  it  must  be  so,"  but  with  a 
look  and  an  accent  that  implied  that  I'Intruse  who 
had  made  her  so  sad  was  not  the  imaginary  being 
in  Maeterlinck's  book  but  the  terrible  Reaper 
in  person. 

"I  have  had  a  letter  from  Italy,"  she  said, 
after  gently  waving  aside  Noemi's  pressing  in- 
quiries. "  Don  Giuseppe  Flores  is  dead. " 

"Flores?  Who  is  he?"  Noemi  did  not  re- 
member him,  and  Jeanne  chided  her  sharply, 
as  if  such  forgetfulness  rendered  her  unworthy 
of  her  position  of  confidante.  Don  Giuseppe 
Flores  was  the  old  Venetian  priest  who  had 
brought  a  last  message  from  Piero  Maironi  to 
Villa  Diedo.  Jeanne  had  then  believed  that 
his  counsels  had  decided  her  lover  to  renounce 
the  world,  and,  not  satisfied  with  giving  him  an 
icy  reception,  had  wounded  him  with  ironical  al- 
lusions to  his  supposed  attitude,  which  she  pro- 
nounced truly  worthy  of  a  servant  of  the  Father 
of  infinite  mercy.  The  old  man  had  answered 
with  such  clear  f_nderstanding,  in  language  so 
solemn  and  gentle  and  so  full  of  spiritual  wisdom — 
his  fine  face  glowing  with  a  radiance  from  above — 
that  she  had  ended  by  begging  him  not  only  to 
forgive  her,  but  to  visit  her  from  time  to  time. 
He  had,  in  fact,  come  twice,  but  on  neither 


8  The  Saint 

occasion  had  she  been  at  home.  She  had  then 
sought  him  out  in  his  solitary  villa,  and  of  this 
visit,  of  this  conversation  with  the  old  man  so 
lofty  of  soul,  so  humble  in  heart,  so  ardent  in 
spirit,  so  modest  and  reticent,  she  had  retained 
an  ineffaceable  memory.  He  was  dead,  they 
wrote.  He  had  passed  away,  bowing  gently  and 
humbly  to  the  Divine  Will.  Shortly  before  his 
death  he  had  dreamed  continually  during  a  long 
night,  of  the  words  addressed  to  the  faithful 
servant  in  the  parable  of  the  talents:  " Ecce 
superlucratus  sum  alia  quinque,"  and  his  last 
words  had  been:  "Non  fiat  voluntas  mea  sed  tua. " 
Her  correspondent  was  unaware  that,  in  spite 
of  many  misgivings,  of  certain  yearning  towards 
religion,  Jeanne,  stubborn  as  ever,  still  denied 
God  and  immortality  as  eternal  illusions,  and  if 
from  time  to  time  she  went  to  Mass,  it  was  only 
to  avoid  acquiring  the  undesirable  reputation 
of  being  a  free-thinker. 

She  did  not  relate  the  particulars  of  Don 
Giuseppe's  death  to  Noemi,  but  pondered  them 
herself  with  a  vague,  deeply  bitter  consciousness 
of  how  different  her  destiny  might  have  been, 
had  she  been  able  to  believe;  for  at  the  bottom 
of  Piero  Maironi's  soul  there  had  always  lurked 
a  hereditary  tendency  to  religion,  and  to-day  she 
was  convinced  that  when,  on  the  night  of  the 
eclipse,  she  had  confessed  her  unbelief,  she  had 
written  her  own  condemnation  in  the  book  of 
destiny.  Then  her  thoughts  dwelt  on  another 


Lac  d'Amour  9 

painful  passage  in  the  letter  from  Italy  which 
she  had  not  mentioned.  But,  in  spite  of  her 
silence,  her  misery  was  evident.  Noemi  pressed 
her  lips  to  Jeanne's  forehead,  and  letting  them 
rest  there  in  silence,  touched  by  the  secret  sorrow 
which  accepted  her  sympathy.  Then  she  slowly 
drew  away  from  the  long  embrace  as  if  fearful 
of  severing  some  delicate  thread  which  bound 
their  two  souls  together. 

"  Perhaps  that  good  old  man  knew  where — Do 

you  think  he  was  in  communication  with " 

she  murmured. 

Jeanne  shook  her  head  in  denial.  During  the 
September  following  that  sad  July,  Jeanne's  un- 
fortunate husband  had  died  in  Venice  of  delirium 
tremens.  She  had  gone  to  the  Villa  Flores  in 
October,  and  there  in  that  same  garden  where 
the  Marchesa  Scremin  had  once  laid  bare  her 
poor,  suffering  old  heart  to  Don  Giuseppe,  had 
expressed  a  desire  that  Piero  should  be  told  of 
her  husband's  death,  should  realise  that  he  might 
henceforth  think  of  her  without  a  shadow  of 
guilt,  if  indeed  he  still  wished  to  think  of  her  at  all. 
Don  Giuseppe  first  gently  urged  her  not  to  aban- 
don herself  to  this  dream,  and  then  avowed  to  her 
in  all  sincerity  that  no  tidings  of  Piero  had  reached 
him  since  the  day  of  his  disappearance. 

Fearing  other  questions,  and  unwilling  any 
longer  to  expose  her  wound  to  the  touch  of  un- 
skilled fingers,  Jeanne  sought  to  change  the 
subject.  "Tell  me  about  your  monk,"  she  said. 


io  The  Saint 

But  just  at  that  moment  Carlino's  voice  was 
heard  in  the  hall. 

"Not  now,"  replied  Noemi.     "To-night." 

Carlino  came  in,  a  white  silk  muffler  round  his 
neck,  grumbling  at  the  Lac  d' Armour,  which  he 
pronounced  a  huge  fraud,  which  only  filled  the 
air  with  odious,  poisonous,  little  creatures.  "To 
be  sure,"  said  he,  "love  itself  is  no  better." 
Noemi  would  not  allow  him  to  talk  of  love.  Why 
should  he  discuss  a  subject  which  he  did  not 
understand?  Carlino  thanked  her.  He  had  been 
on  the  point  of  falling  in  love  with  her;  had 
greatly  feared  such  a  catastrophe.  Her  words, 
coming  as  they  did  so  soon  after  her  appearance 
in  a  certain  offensive  hat,  with  an  ungraceful 
feather,  and  after  some  rather  bourgeois  expres- 
sions of  admiration  for  that  poor,  tiresome  devil 
Mendelssohn,  had  saved  him  b  jamais.  The  two 
sparred  gaily  for  some  time,  and,  in  spite  of  his 
poisoned  tonsils,  Carlino  was  in  such  high  spirits 
that  Noemi  congratulated  him  on  the  subject 
of  his  novel.  "It  must  be  making  rapid  pro- 
gress,"  she  said. 

"Nonsense,"  answered  the  author.  "It  is 
not  progressing  at  all."  He  was  making  no 
headway,  but  was,  in  fact,  floundering  hopelessly 
in  the  shallows  of  a  desperate  situation.  Two 
personages  had  stuck  in  the  author's  throat,  and 
could  move  neither  up  nor  down;  one  fat  and 
good-natured,  the  other  thin  and  sarcastic,  like 


Lac  d' Amour  n 

Mademoiselle  d'Arxel.  He  felt  like  a  certain 
unfortunate  Tuscan  peasant,  who  had  lately 
swallowed  a  fig  with  a  bee  upon  it,  and  had  died 
in  consequence.  The  "bee"  understood  that  he 
really  wanted  to  talk  of  his  book;  she  stung  him 
again  and  again  to  such  a  degree  that  he  actually 
did  talk  about  it.  His  story  was  founded  on  a 
curious  case  of  spiritual  infection.  The  hero  was 
a  French  priest,  an  octogenarian,  pious,  pure, 
and  learned.  French?  Why  French?  Simply 
because  the  character  must  be  possessed  of  a 
certain  tinge  of  poetic  fancy,  a  certain  elasticity 
of  sentiment,  and  according  to  Carlino,  not  one 
Italian  priest  in  a  thousand  was  likely  to  possess 
these  exalted  attributes.  It  happened  one  day 
that  this  priest  received  the  confession  of  a  man 
of  great  intellect  whose  faith  was  assailed  by 
terrible  doubts.  His  confession  over,  the  penitent 
went  his  way  completely  reassured,  leaving  the 
confessor  shaken  in  his  own  faith.  Here  would 
follow  a  long  and  minute  analysis  of  the  different 
phases  through  which  the  old  man's  conscience 
passed.  He  lived  in  daily  expectation  of  death 
with  a  feeling  of  dismay  akin  to  that  of  the  school- 
boy who  waits  his  turn  for  examination  in  the 
ante-room,  conscious  only  of  his  empty  head. 
The  priest  comes  to  Bruges.  At  this  point  the 
hostile  critic  exclaimed: 

"To  Bruges?     Why?" 

"Because,"  answered  Carlino,  "I  send  him 
wherever  I  wish.  Because  at  Bruges  there  is  the 


12  The  Saint 

silence  of  the  ante-chamber  of  Eternity,  and  that 
carillon  (which  honestly  is  beginning  to  ex- 
asperate me)  may  pass  for  the  voices  of  sum- 
moning angels.  Finally,  because  at  Bruges  there 
is  a  dark  young  lady  slight,  tall,  and  whom  we 
may  also  call  intelligent,  although  she  speaks 
Italian  badly,  and  does  not  understand  music." 

Noemi  -cursed  her  lips  and  wrinkled  her  nose. 

"What  nonsense, "  she  said. 

Carlino  continued,  saying  he  did  not  yet  know 
how,  but  in  some  way  or  another  the  brunette 
would  become  the  penitent  of  the  old  priest. 
Noemi  protested,  laughing.  How?  The  girl 
could  not  be  herself.  A  heretic  go  to  Confession? 
Carlino  shrugged  his  shoulders.  One  Comedy 
of  Errors  more  or  less,  what  did  it  matter?  Pro- 
testantism and  Roman  Catholicism  were,  after  all, 
much  the  same  thing.  The  priest  would  then 
regain  his  old  faith  through  contact  with  the 
simple,  steadfast  belief  of  the  girl.  Here  Carlino 
interrupted  his  story,  avowing,  in  parenthesis, 
that  he  really  did  not  know  what  kind  of  be- 
lief Noemi  held.  She  flushed,  and  replied  that 
she  was  a  Protestant,  Protestant,  certainly; 
but  a  Protestant  pure  and  simple?  Noemi  lost 
her  patience.  "I  am  a  Protestant,  that  is 
enough,"  she  exclaimed;  "and  you  need  not 
trouble  yourself  about  my  faith." 

Noemi  was,  in  fact,  true  to  her  own  faith,  not 
so  much  from  conviction  as  from  her  reverent 
affection  for  the  memory  of  her  parents;  and  in 


Lac  d' Amour  13 

her  heart  she  had  disapproved  of  her  sister's 
conversion. 

Carlino  continued.  A  mystic,  sexual  influence 
induced  the  old  man  to  seek  for  a  union  of  souls 
with  the  girl.  "What  rubbish!"  said  Noemi, 
with  her  familiar  pout.  Carlino  went  on  un- 
moved. The  most  subtle,  the  most  exquisite 
part  of  his  book  was  the  analysis  of  this  recondite 
influence  of  sex  operating  alike  on  the  old  priest 
and  the  girl. 

"Carlino,"  exclaimed  Jeanne,  "what  are  you 
thinking  of?  An  old  man  of  eighty!"  Carlino 
looked  up  as  though  he  would  exclaim  to  some 
superior,  invisible  friend,  "How  dense  they  are!" 

He  had  even  thought  of  making  his  hero  older 
still — say  ninety;  of  creating  a  sort  of  inter- 
mediary being  between  man  and  spirit,  who  should 
have  in  his  eyes  the  nebulous  depths  of  the  fast 
approaching  things  of  eternity.  And  the  girl 
should  have  in  her  blood  that  mysterious  in- 
clination towards  old  men,  not  unusual  in  her  sex, 
which  is  the  truest  mark  of  real  feminine  nobility, 
and  by  which  the  woman  is  differentiated  from 
the  female.  Carlino  had  in  his  mind  some  in- 
spired thoughts  to  which  he  would  give  utterance, 
concerning  this  mystic  sense  which  attracts  the 
girl  of  four  and  twenty  to  the  man  of  ninety; 
a  priest,  on  the  verge  of  the  grave,  but  upheld 
by  an  indomitable  spirit — unconquered  as  often 
happens  by  the  ravages  of  time.  But  how  is  all 
this  to  end?  Neither  Noemi  nor  Jeanne  could 


H  The  Saint 

imagine.  Well,  Carlino  had  said  from  the  first 
that  the  fig  and  the  bee  could  neither  get  up  nor 
down.  One  consolation,  however,  there  was — the 
idea  that  a  book  must  have  a  fitting  end  was  a 
mere  vulgar  prejudice.  What  is  there  in  the  world 
that  really  has  an  end?  That  is  all  very  well, 
said  the  girls,  but  the  book  must  certainly  have 
some  ending.  The  last  scene,  one  of  ineffable 
beauty,  should  describe  a  walk  at  night  and  by 
moonlight  through  the  streets  of  Bruges,  when  the 
souls  of  the  priest  and  the  maiden  should  be 
revealed  to  one  another,  and  they  should  commune 
half  as  lovers,  half  dreaming  like  prophets. 
The  two  should  find  themselves  at  midnight 
beside  the  sleeping  waters  of  the  Lac  d 'Amour, 
listening  in  silence  to  the  weird  notes  of  the  carillon 
under  the  clouds,  and  then  should  come  to  them 
the  vague  revelation  of  a  sexuality  of  their  souls, 
of  a  future  of  love  in  the  star  Fomalhaut. 

"  But  why  especially  in  Fomalhaut? "  exclaimed 
Noemi. 

"You  are  really  intolerable, "  answered  Carlino. 
"Because  the  name  is  so  delightful,  it  has  the 
ring  of  a  word  congealed  by  German  frost  and 
then  melted  by  the  Eastern  sun. " 

"Nonsense!  You  are  talking  chemistry!  I 
prefer  Algol." 

"  You  and  your  pastor  may  go  to  Algol. " 

Noemi  laughed,  and  Carlino  appealed  to  Jeanne. 
Which  star  would  she  prefer?  Jeanne  did  not 
know;  she  had  not  been  listening.  Carlino  was 


Lac  d' Amour  15 

greatly  annoyed;  he  seemed  to  want  to  reprove 
her,  not  so  much  for  her  inattention,  as  for  the 
hidden  thoughts  which  had  caused  it;  and  then, 
fearing  to  say  too  much,  he  sent  her  away  to 
meditate,  to  dream,  to  write  the  philosophy  of 
smoke  and  clouds.  But  when  she,  not  in  the 
least  annoyed,  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  he 
called  her  back  to  inquire  whether  she  had  heard 
how  his  novel  was  to  end.  Yes!  she  had  heard ; 
a  moonlight  walk  of  the  hero  and  heroine  through 
the  streets  of  Bruges. 

"Well,"  said  Carlino,  "as  there  will  be  a  moon 
to-night,  I  should  like  to  walk  with  you  and 
Noemi  from  ten  to  twelve  and  take  some  notes." 

"  Shall  I  dress  myself  as  a  priest? "  asked  Jeanne 
as  she  went  out.  Noemi  wished  to  follow  her, 
but  Jeanne  herself  begged  her  to  remain.  She 
stayed  behind  to  tell  Carlino  that  he  was  unworthy 
of  such  a  sister.  Carlino  went  to  the  music 
portfolio  to  search  for  a  small  volume  of  Bach, 
grumbling  the  while  that  she  knew  nothing — 
absolutely  nothing.  They  kept  up  their  skir- 
mish for  some  time,  Bach  himself  failing  to  soothe 
their  ruffled  feelings,  and  even  while  playing  they 
continued  joking,  first  concerning  Jeanne,  and 
then  about  one  another's  false  notes.  At 
last,  however,  the  clear  stream  of  sound,  which 
had  been  ruffled  by  the  eddies  of  their  angry 
outbursts,  conquered  their  ill-humour,  and  flowed 
on  smoothly,  reflecting  the  heavens  and  idyllic 
banks. 


16  The  Saint 

Jeanne  carried  VIntruse  to  her  room,  but  did  not 
continue  her  reading.  The  room  looked  out  on 
the  Lac  d 'Amour.  She  sat  down  by  the  window. 
Beyond  the  bridge,  beyond  the  rolling  hilltops — de- 
stitute of  trees — which  loomed  between  intervening 
houses,  she  could  see  the  summit  of  a  lofty  tower, 
shrouded  fantastically  in  azure  mists.  She  heard 
the  continuous  peaceful  flow  of  Bach,  and  thought 
of  Don  Giuseppe  with  that  feeling  of  melancholy 
which  we  experience  when  we  catch  a  last  glimpse 
of  some  beloved  home,  turning  at  every  step  to 
look  back  until  at  length  some  bend  in  the  road 
hides  the  last  corner,  the  last  window  from  sight. 
There  was  an  element  of  anxiety  in  Jeanne's 
grief.  The  letter  told  her  that  among  the  papers 
of  the  dead  man,  a  sealed  packet  had  been 
found  with  the  following  superscription  in  Don 
Giuseppe's  hand:  "To  be  consigned  by  my  ex- 
ecutor to  Monsignor  the  Bishop. "  The  order 
had  been  executed,  and  according  to  a  rumour 
coming  straight  from  the  Episcopal  Palace,  the 
packet  contained  a  letter  from  Don  Giuseppe  to 
the  Bishop,  and  a  sealed  envelope  bearing  in 
another  hand  the  words:  "To  be  opened  after 
Piero  Maironi's  death. "  The  Bishop  was  re- 
ported to  have  said:  "Let  us  hope  that  Piero 
Maironi,  of  whose  abode  we  are  ignorant,  may 
reappear  to  let  us  know  of  his  death. " 

Jeanne  was  unaware  that  previous  to  the  night 
when  he  fled  from  home,  leaving  no  trace,  Piero 
had  entrusted  to  Don  Giuseooe  a  written  account 


Lac  d' Amour  17 

of  a  vision  of  his  own  life  in  the  future  and  his 
death;  a  vision  of  which  she  was  ignorant,  and 
which  had  come  to  Piero  in  the  little  church 
adjoining  the  asylum  where  his  wife  lay  dying. 
What  did  that  sealed  envelope  contain?  Surely 
something  he  himself  had  written;  but  what? 
A  confession,  probably  of  his  sins.  The  concep- 
tion of  such  an  action,  the  manner  in  which  it 
had  been  carried  out,  would  be  in  harmony 
with  his  innate  mysticism,  with  the  predominance 
in  him  of  imagination  over  reason,  with  his 
intellectual  physiognomy.  Three  years  had  passed 
since  the  day  at  Vena  di  Fonte  Alta,  when  Jeanne 
in  despair  had  sworn  to  herself  to  love  Piero  no 
longer,  feeling  that  henceforward  she  could  love 
nothing  else  in  the  world.  Nevertheless  she 
always  loved  him;  still,  as  in  the  past,  she  judged 
him  with  her  intellect  independent  of  her  heart, 
an  independence  dear  to  her  pride.  She  judged 
him  with  severity  in  all  his  actions,  all  his  atti- 
tudes, from  the  moment  when  he  had  conquered 
her  by  sheer  strength  in  the  monastery  of  Praglia 
to  the  moment  when  their  lips  had  met  near  the 
basin  of  the  Acqua  Barbarena.  He  had  shown 
himself  incapable  of  loving,  incapable  of  decisive 
action,  irresolute,  effeminate  in  the  instability 
of  his  mind.  Yes,  he  had  been  effeminate  until 
the  last;  effeminate,  unfit  to  form  any  virile 
judgment  of  his  own  hysterical  mysticism.  In 
this  judgment  there  was  perhaps  an  imperfect 
sincerity,  an  excess  of  bitterness,  a  futile  act 


i8  The  Saint 

of  rebellion  against  this  all-powerful,  invincible 
love. 

If  he  had  actually  become  a  monk,  Jeanne  fore- 
saw that  he  would  regret  it.  He  was  too  sensual. 
The  first  period  of  sorrow  and  fervour  passed, 
his  sensuality  would  reawaken,  and  lead  him  to 
rebel  against  a  faith  that  appeals  rather  to  the 
sentiments  and  habits  of  youth  than  to  the 
intellect.  But  had  he  really  become  a  monk? 
Jeanne  imagined  that  the  colossal  tower  of  Notre 
Dame,  with  its  slender  spire  piercing  the  sky,  the 
gloomy  walls  of  the  B6guinage,  the  poor  stagnant 
Lac  d'Amour,  and  even  the  solemn  silence  of  the 
dead  city,  answered  "Yes."  But  it  would  be 
superstitious  to  hearken  to  their  voices. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  asked  Jeanne,  at 
ten  o'clock,  putting  on  her  gloves,  while  Car- 
lino,  who  had  given  Noemi  an  end  of  his  in- 
terminable muffler  to  hold,  the  other  being 
fastened  behind  his  neck,  revolved  like  a  spindle 
on  its  axis,  until  his  neck  was  bigger  in  circum- 
ference than  his  head.  "And  am  I  really  to  be 
the  priest  of  ninety?" 

Carlino  was  annoyed  because  Noemi  laughed, 
and  did  not  hold  the  scarf  tight  enough. 

"You  or  she,  no  matter  which,"  he  answered, 
when  Noemi,  having  fastened  the  muffler  with  a 
pin,  at  last  set  the  swathed  novelist  at  liberty. 
"  Go  wherever  you  like,  provided  you  go  towards 
the  centre  of  the  town,  and  return  by  the  other 


Lac  d' Amour  19 

side  of  the  Lac  d' Am  our,  and  talk  of  something 
that  interests  you  particularly. " 

"With  you  present?"  said  Noemi.  "How 
can  that  be  possible?" 

Carlino  explained  that  he  would  not  walk  with 
them,  but  would  follow,  note-book  and  pencil 
in  hand.  They  would  be  obliged  to  halt  from 
time  to  time  according  to  his  pleasure,  and  must 
be  prepared  to  obey  any  other  orders  he  might 
see  fit  to  issue.  "Very  well,"  said  Noemi,  "first 
let  us  go  to  the  Quai  du  Rosaire  to  see  the  swans. " 

They  set  forth  in  the  direction  of  Notre  Dame. 
Carlino  twenty  yards  behind  his  sister  and  Noemi. 
At  first  a  lively  altercation  was  kept  up  through 
the  deserted  streets  between  the  van  and  rear- 
guard. The  vanguard  walked  too  fast,  and 
Carlino  shouted:  "At  ninety?  at  ninety?"  or 
they  laughed,  and  Carlino  exclaimed:  "What 
are  you  laughing  at?  Hush!"  or  stopped  to  gaze 
at  an  ancient  church,  its  gables,  and  pinnacles 
looming  weird  in  the  moonlight,  the  cemetery 
nestling  close  by;  Carlino,  again  interrupting, 
would  beg  them  to  talk,  converse,  gesticulate. 
"Don't  stare  into  space,"  said  he.  A  mutiny 
broke  out  in  the  vanguard,  Noemi  being  the  more 
petulant.  She  turned  on  the  Dyver,  and  stamping 
her  foot,  protested  that  she  would  go  home  if 
this  most  tiresome  novelist  in  a  muffler  did  not 
cease  ordering  and  complaining.  Jeanne  then 
whispered : 

"  Tell  me  about  your  monk. " 


2o  The  Saint 

"The  monk,  oh  yes,"  answered  iNoemi,  and 
called  to  Carlino  that  they  would  try  to  satisfy 
him,  but  that  he  must  keep  farther  off. 

From  the  Quai  du  Rosaire  the  swans  were  no 
longer  visible.  Noemi  had  watched  them  in 
the  morning,  disporting  themselves  on  the  water, 
blurring  with  their  stately  movements  the  still 
reflection  of  that  pile  of  houses  and  cottages  that 
raise  their  long,  big-eared  faces  out  of  the  water, 
like  weird,  glutted  beasts,  staring  stupidly,  some 
in  one  direction,  some  in  another,  all  herded 
together  by  the  dominating  tower  of  the  Halles. 
The  moon  shone  across  the  houses,  throwing 
shadows  on  some  glorifying  roof-tree  and  pinnacle, 
the  peaked  cap  of  a  Chaldean  magician  which 
crowned  a  little  turret,  and  above  it  all,  stood  out 
the  sublime  octagonal  diadem  of  the  mighty 
tower.  But  no  beam  fell  on  the  dark  waters. 
Nevertheless  Jeanne  and  Noemi  leaned  for  some 
time  against  the  parapet,  gazing  into  the  gloomy 
depths;  Noemi  talked  incessantly.  They  lin- 
gered so  long  that  Carlino  had  time  to  fill  three  or 
four  pages  of  his  note-book,  and  to  sketch  the 
frieze  with  which  an  ambitious  Bruges  merchant 
had  adorned  his  house,  even  introducing  the 
memorable  date  1716,  the  year  in  which  the  sun, 
the  moon,  and  the  stars  had  first  beheld  it. 

The  monk,  said  Noemi,  was  a  Benedictine,  by 
name  Don  Clemente,  belonging  to  the  monastery 
of  Santa  Scolastica  at  Subiaco.  He  was  an 
acquaintance  of  the  Selvas,  and  Giovanni  had 


Lac  d' Amour  21 

first  met  him  near  some  ruins  on  the  path  leading 
to  Spello,  and  after  having  inquired  the  way,  had 
entered  into  conversation  with  him.  He  looked 
little  over  thirty,  and  was  of  refined  manner  and 
bearing.  They  began  to  talk  of  the  ruins;  the 
conversation  then  drifted  on  to  monasteries  and 
monastic  rules,  and  finally  to  religion.  The  very 
voice  of  the  Benedictine  seemed  to  breathe  an 
odour  of  sanctity;  nevertheless  it  was  evident 
at  the  same  time  that  his  was  a  mind  that  hun- 
gered after  knowledge  and  modern  thought. 
They  had  parted  with  a  mutual  desire  for,  and  the 
promise  of,  another  meeting.  The  atmosphere 
surrounding  the  youthful  monk,  whose  face 
seemed  illumined  by  the  beauty  of  his  soul,  was 
a  stimulus  to  Giovanni,  and  the  Benedictine  had 
felt  the  fascination  of  his  companion's  religious 
culture,  and  of  the  horizons  of  thought  which 
this  brief  conversation  had  opened  up  to  his 
faith,  eager  for  rational  light.  Giovanni  had 
heard  them  speak,  at  Subiaco,  of  a  young  man  of 
noble  birth  who  had  taken  the  habit  of  the 
Benedictines  at  Santa  Scolastica  after  the  death 
of  the  woman  he  loved.  He  had  no  doubt  that 
this  was  he.  He  had  questioned  other  monks 
about  him  without  gaining  any  information; 
but  he  and  Don  Clemente  had  since  met  repeatedly 
and  had  had  long  talks  together.  Giovanni  had 
lent  the  young  man  books,  and  Don  Clemente 
had  been  to  Selva's  house  and  made  Maria's 
acquaintance.  He  had  shown  himself  a  musician, 


22  The  Saint 

and  had  once  played  a  Psalm  of  the  Dawn  to 
them,  which  he  had  composed  for  organ  and 
voices  after  having  heard  Giovanni  liken  the 
sun  in  its  slow  progress  from  the  first  mist- 
enveloped  gleam  to  the  triumphal  glory  of  noon- 
day, to  the  manifestation  of  God,  as  displayed 
in  the  lightning- torn  cloud  on  the  rocky  summit 
of  Sinai,  to  the  triumphal  glory — not  even  yet 
perfectly  developed — in  the  mind  of  man.  On 
another  occasion  Giovanni  propounded  a  ques- 
tion to  him  which  he  had  already  discussed  with 
Noemi ;  whether,  on  leaving  this  world,  human 
souls  at  once  acquire  knowledge  of  their  future 
destiny.  Don  Clemente's  answer  had  been,  that 
after  death 

At  this  point  in  Noemi's  narrative,  Carlino  in- 
quired whether  he  should  set  up  three  tents  that 
they  might  pass  the  night  on  the  spot?  His 
sister  and  Noemi  aroused  themselves  and  started 
in  the  direction  of  the  Rue  des  Laines.  "The 
answer,"  continued  Noemi,  "was,  that  probably 
human  souls  found  themselves  in  a  state  and  in 
surroundings  regulated,  as  in  this  life,  by  natural 
laws;  where,  as  also  in  this  life,  the  future  can 
be  divined  only  by  indications,  and  without 
certainty. " 

A  wayfarer,  whom  they  met  at  the  entrance  of 
the  narrow,  dark  street,  turned  back,  and  on 
passing  the  ladies,  scrutinised  them  closely. 
Jeanne  pretended  to  be  afraid  of  the  man;  she 
stopped,  and  calling  Carlino,  proposed  to  return 


Lac  d' Amour  23 

home.  Her  voice  really  sounded  different,  but 
Carlino  could  not  believe  she  was  afraid.  Afraid 
of  what?  Did  she  not  see  there  before  them 
only  a  few  steps  away,  the  lights  of  the  Grande 
Place?  Moreover  he  knew  the  man,  and  was 
going  to  put  him  into  his  book.  He  was  the 
brother  of  the  swan-necked  Edith,  a  spirit  of  dark- 
ness, condemned  to  wander  at  night  in  the  streets 
of  Bruges,  as  a  penance  for  having  attempted 
to  seduce  St.  Gunhild,  sister  of  King  Harold. 
Each  time  that  Carlino  had  ventured  at  night 
into  the  more  lonely  parts  of  Bruges  he  had 
seen  this  sinister  figure,  wandering,  as  it  seemed, 
aimlessly. 

"That  is  a  nice  way  to  reassure  people,"  said 
Noemi. 

Carlino  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  declared 
the  meeting  to  have  been  most  fortunate,  since  it 
had  suggested  the  name  of  Gunhild  for  his  heroine, 
Noemi  being  that  of  a  mother-in-law. 

In  the  black  shadow  of  the  enormous  Halles, 
towering  on  the  right  of  the  street,  the  sinister- 
looking  man,  who  had  retraced  his  steps,  almost 
brushed  Jeanne's  side  in  passing,  and  this  time 
she  really  shuddered.  At  this  moment,  however, 
the  innumerable  bells  rang  out  amid  the  clouds 
above  her  head. 

She  pressed  Noemi 's  arm  convulsively  without 
speaking.  In  silence  they  crossed  the  square. 
Carlino  directed  them  to  take  a  lonely  street  on 
the  left,  brightly  illumined  by  the  moon,  which 


24  The  Saint 

hung  just  above  the  dark,  serrated  house-tops. 
Jeanne  whispered  to  her  companion : 

"  Let  us  make  haste  and  get  home  quickly. " 

But  Carlino,  hearing  the  sound  of  dance-music 
issuing  from  the  Hotel  de  Flandre,  ordered  them  to 
stop  and  began  writing  in  his  note-book.  Noemi 
was  saying  something  about  the  H6tel  de  Flandre, 
where  she  had  stayed  some  years  before,  when 
Jeanne  suddenly  interrupted  her: 

"Did  Maria  write  you  that  long  story?" 

Noemi  answered,  apprehensive  rather  than 
surprised. 

"  Yes,  it  was  Maria. ' ' 

"I  do  not  understand,"  replied  Jeanne,  "why 
she  should  have  taken  all  that  trouble. " 

Noemi  did  not  answer.  Jeanne  shook  her  arm 
which  she  still  held.  "Will  you  not  speak? 
What  do  you  think? " 

Although  both  now  were  silent,  they  did  not 
hear  Carlino  call  to  them  to  turn  to  the  left. 
He  came  up  angrily,  and  taking  them  by  the 
shoulders,  turned  them,  fuming  the  while,  in 
another  direction.  They  obeyed  without  noticing 
his  voice  or  manner. 

"Will  you  not  answer?"  Jeanne  repeated, 
half  aggrieved  and  half  amazed. 

Noemi  in  her  turn  pressed  her  friend's  arm. 

"Wait  until  we  get  home, "  she  said. 

Carlino  shouted. 

"Stop  under  those  trees." 

But  Jeanne,   having  reached   an   open    space 


Lac  d' Amour  25 

filled  with  small  trees  and  bathed  in  moon- 
light, under  the  great  wall  of  the  ancient  cathe- 
dral, stopped  at  once,  and  stretching  out  her 
arm,  which  had  rested  on  Noemi's,  seized  her 
friend's  hand  and  said,  trembling  with  agitation: 

"Noemi,  answer  me  at  once;  have  you  told 
your  sister  anything?" 

Carlino  called  to  them  to  stop  there  if  they 
liked,  but  to  pretend  to  be  engaged  in  an  inter- 
esting conversation. 

Noemi  answered  her  friend  with  a  "yes"  so 
timid  and  soft  that  Jeanne  understood  all.  Maria 
Selva  believed  that  her  monk,  this  Don  Clemente, 
was  Piero  Maironi. 

"Oh,  God!"  she  exclaimed,  tightly  pressing 
Noemi's  hand.  "  But  did  she  really  say  so? " 

"Say  what?" 

"What  indeed!" 

Good  heavens!  How  difficult  it  was  to  make 
the  girl  speak  out.  Jeanne  freed  herself  from 
her,  but  Noemi,  alarmed,  at  once  seized  her  arm 
again. 

"  Capital ! ' '  cried  Carlino.  "  But  don't  overdo 
it." 

"Forgive  me,"  Noemi  pleaded.  "It  is  only 
a  supposition  after  all;  only  a  conjecture.  She 
herself  says  so. " 

"No,"  Jeanne  burst  out,  sweeping  away  doubt 
and  conjecture.  "No,  it  is  not  he,  it  is  not 
possible.  He  was  never  a  musician." 

"  No,  no,  it  is  not  he,  it  is  not, "  Noemi  hastened 


26  The  Saint 

to  reassure  her,  speaking  under  her  breath,  for 
Carlino  was  approaching.  He  came,  praised 
their  acting,  and  expressed  a  desire  that  they 
should  move  on  slowly  among  the  trees. 

In  the  shadow  of  the  trees  Jeanne  complained 
almost  indignantly,  that  her  friend  had  waited 
until  then  to  make  such  a  disclosure;  she  ought 
to  have  spoken  sooner,  and  at  home.  And  once 
more  she  protested  that  this  Benedictine  monk 
could  not  be  Maironi,  because  Maironi  had  never 
been  a  musician.  Noemi  tried  to  justify  herself. 
She  had  intended  to  speak  on  her  return  from  the 
Hospital  of  St.  John,  from  the  visit  to  Memling, 
but  Jeanne  had  been  so  sad !  Still  she  would  have 
spoken  had  Carlino  not  come  in.  And  now  while 
they  had  been  walking  she  had  not  known  how 
to  parry  Jeanne's  questions.  If,  when  they  were 
standing  near  the  H6tel  de  Flandre,  Jeanne  had 
not  returned  to  the  subject,  she  would  not  have 
referred  to  it  again;  and  she,  Noemi,  would  not 
have  made  her  disclosure  until  they  reached 
home. 

"And  your  sister  really  believes?"  said  Jeanne. 

Well,  Maria  was  in  doubt.  It  would  seem  that 
Giovanni  was  the  more  certain.  Giovanni  was 
sure;  at  least  Maria  said  so  in  her  letter.  At 
receiving  this  reply  Jeanne  flared  up.  How 
could  he  be  sure?  what  did  he  know  about  it? 
Maironi  could  not  play  a  single  chord  on  the 
pi- mo.  Good  grounds  for  certainty  indeed !  Noemi 
observed  submissively  that  he  might  have  learned 


Lac  d' Amour  27 

in  three  years;  that  the  monks  had  their  reasons 
for  training  brothers  to  play  the  organ. 

"  Then  you  believe  it  too? "  exclaimed  Jeanne. 
Noemi  stammered  "I  do  not  know"  so  hesi- 
tatingly that  Jeanne,  in  great  agitation,  declared 
she  must  leave  at  once  for  Subiaco,  that  she  must 
know  the  truth.  She  had  already  promised 
Maria  Selva  to  bring  her  sister  back.  She  would 
find  some  means  of  persuading  Carlino  to  start 
immediately.  Noemi  was  frightened.  For  her 
own  peace  of  mind,  as  well  as  for  Don  Clemen te's, 
her  brother-in-law  would  not  wish  Jeanne  Dessalle 
to  return  to  Subiaco.  It  was  Noemi 's  mission  to 
convince  her  of  the  propriety  of  such  a  renuncia- 
tion. Selva  was  restored  to  health,  and  had 
himself  offered  to  come  and  meet  his  sister-in-law, 
would  even  come  to  Belgium,  were  it  necessary. 
She  now  tried  to  oppose  the  idea  of  immediate' 
departure;  but  only  succeeded  in  irritating 
Jeanne,  who  repeatedly  protested  that  the  Selvas 
were  mistaken,  but  was  unable  to  give  any  other 
reason  for  her  violent  resistance.  Carlino,  having 
caught  a  sharp  "That  is  enough"  uttered  by  his 
sister,  drew  nearer.  Were  they  quarrelling,  the 
priest  and  the  girl?  Now,  when  the  mystical 
tenderness  ought  to  begin?  "  Do  leave  us  alone, " 
said  Noemi.  "  By  this  time  your  old  priest  of 
ninety  would  be  dead  ten  times  over  of  fatigue. 
Don't  give  us  any  more  orders.  I  will  lead  the 
way.  I  know  Bruges  better  than  you,  and  you 
keep  a  hundred  paces  behind. " 


28  The  Saint 

Carlino  could  find  nothing  to  say  but  "  Oh,  oh — 
oh,  oh — oh,  oh!"  and  Noemi  carried  Jeanne  off 
with  her,  following  the  railing  of  the  little  ceme- 
tery of  Saint- Sauveur.  It  seemed  the  right 
moment  for  her  final  revelation. 

"  I  really  believe  Giovanni  is  right,  you  know, " 
said  she.  "This  Don  Clemente  comes  from 
Brescia. " 

Jeanne,  overcome  by  an  access  of  misery,  threw 
her  arms  round  her  friend's  neck  and  burst  into 
tears.  Noemi,  dismayed,  implored  her  to  calm 
herself. 

"For  God's  sake,  Jeanne!" 

Between  her  sobs,  she  asked  Noemi  whether 
Carlino  knew.  Oh,  no,  but  what  would  he  think 
now? 

"  He  cannot  see  us  here, "  sobbed  Jeanne.  They 
were  in  the  shadow  of  the  church.  Noemi  was 
surprised  that  Jeanne,  in  spite  of  her  emotion, 
had  noticed  the  fact. 

"For  mercy's  sake,  do  not  let  him  find  out. 
For  mercy's  sake!" 

Noemi  promised  to  be  silent.  Jeanne  grew 
calmer  little  by  little,  and  was  the  first  to  move. 
Oh,  to  be  alone!  Alone  in  her  own  room!  The 
sight  of  the  tower  of  Notre  Dame  piercing  the  sky 
with  its  pointed  spire  hurt  her,  like  the  sight  of 
some  victorious  and  implacable  foe.  She  now 
saw  clearly  that  for  three  years  she  had  been 
deceiving  herself  in  thinking  that  she  no  longer 
hoped.  This  hope  which  she  had  thought  dead. 


Lac  d' Amour  29 

how  it  still  struggled  and  stiff ered,  how  it  per- 
sisted in  assailing  her  heart.  No,  no,  he  has  not 
become  a  monk,  it  is  not  he!  In  an  access  of 
longing,  she  pressed  Noemi's  arm.  The  re- 
assuring voice  was  growing  weaker,  was  fading 
away.  Probably  it  was  he,  probably  all  was 
really  over  for  ever.  The  silence  of  the  night,  the 
sadness  of  the  moon,  the  gloom  of  the  dead 
streets,  an  icy  breeze  which  had  sprung  upt 
were  in  harmony  with  her  thoughts. 

Just  a  little  beyond  Notre  Dame  they  again  saw 
the  sinister-looking  wayfarer  gliding  along  close 
to  the  wall,  on  the  dark  side  of  the  street.  Noemi 
hastened  her  steps,  herself  anxious  to  reach  home. 
Carlino,  perceiving  that  his  companions  were 
going  straight  to  the  villa  instead  of  crossing  the 
bridge,  which  leads  to  the  opposite  shore  of  the 
Lac  d' Amour,  protested  loudly.  How  was  this? 
What  about  the  last  scene?  Had  they  forgotten? 
Noemi  showed  signs  of  rebellion,  but  Jeanne,  fear- 
ing lest  Carlino  should  discover  aught  of  her  se- 
cret, begged  her  to  yield. 

"Stop  a  minute  or  two  on  the  bridge,"  Carlino 
called  out. 

They  leaned  against  the  parapet,  gazing  into 
the  oval  mirror  of  motionless  water.  The  moon 
was  hidden  behind  the  clouds. 

"This  absence  of  the  moon  is  perfect  for  me," 
said  Carlino.  "But  now  I  would  give  half  my 
future  glory  if  a  little  window  could  be  opened 
in  the  clouds  with  a  tiny  star  shining  in  the  middle 


30  The  Saint 

and  reflected  in  the  water.  You  cannot  imagine 
what  a  success  this  last  chapter  is  going  to  be. 
Listen,  on  the  Quai  de  Rosaire  you  looked  at  the 
swans." 

"But  they  were  not  there,"  said  Noemi,  inter- 
rupting him. 

"  Never  mind, "  Carlino  went  on.  "  You  looked 
at  the  swans  in  the  moonlight.  " 

"But  the  moon  did  not  touch  the  water," 
retorted  Noemi. 

"What  does  it  matter?"  replied  Carlino,  vexed. 
Noemi,  having  observed  that  in  that  case  it 
was  useless  to  drag  them  about  Bruges  at  such 
an  hour,  he  poetically  compared  his  preparatory 
study,  his  almost  photographic  notes,  to  the 
garlic  which  is  useful  in  the  kitchen,  but  is  not 
brought  to  table,  and  he  continued  to  talk  of 
the  swans  and  the  moon. 

"You  compared  the  living  purity  with  the 
dead  purity.  The  old  priest  utters  this  exquisite 
sentiment,  that  perhaps  the  living  whiteness  of 
the  girl's  soul  irradiates  his  thoughts,  bleached, 
like  his  hair,  by  approaching  death,  while  he  now 
feels  in  his  soul  the  dawn  of  a  warm  purity. 
Then  he  murmurs  to  himself  almost  involuntarily : 
'Abishag. '  The  girl  asks:  'Who  is  Abishag?' 
because  she  is  ignorant  like  you  two,  who  do  not 
know  Abishag,  my  first  love.  The  priest  does  not 
answer,  but  proceeds  with  the  girl  down  the  Rue 
des  Laines.  She  asks  again  who  may  be  Abishag, 
and  still  the  old  man  is  silent.  Then  appears  that 


Lac  d' Amour  31 

horrible  black  shadow,  which  comes  and  goes  and 
at  last  vanishes  at  the  sound  of  the  twenty-four 
bells." 

"That  is  not  correct,"  murmured  Noemi. 
Carlino  was  on  the  point  of  saying,  "Stupid!" 

"The  priest,"  he  continued,  "likens  the  black 
shadow  to  an  evil  spirit,  which  comes  and  goes 
round  pure  spirits  (you  do  not  understand  the 
connection,  but  there  is  a  connection),  eager  to 
enter  into  them,  to  dwell  in  them,  he,  with  others 
worse  than  himself.  Then — and  here  I  have  not 
yet  found  the  connection,  but  I  shall  find  it — they 
are  led  to  talk  of  love.  You  have  crossed  the 
Grande  Place.  To-night  there  was  no  music, 
but  usually  there  is,  and  we  will  suppose  that 
many  amorous  glances  are  exchanged,  as  is 
everywhere  the  case.  The  old  tower  and  the  old 
priest  show  a  certain  indulgence ;  the  maiden,  on 
the  contrary,  finds  this  phase  of  love  stupid.  She 
scorns  it.  It  is  the  love  of  the  world,  says 
the  priest ;  and  here  is  the  Hotel  de  Flandre  and 
the  wedding  dance-music. " 

' '  What  ? ' '  exclaimed  Noemi .  ' '  Was  there  really 
a  wedding  dance?" 

Carlino  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  clenched 
his  fists,  gasping  with  impatience.  After  a  deep 
sigh  he  continued: 

"  The  girl  asks,  '  But  is  there  a  heavenly  love  ? ' 
It  was  then  I  told  you  to  stop  under  the  trees  of 
Saint- Sauveur,  and  you,  instead,  stopped  at  the 
entrance  to  the  square.  It  makes  no  difference ; 


32  The  Saint 

the  cathedral  was  in  sight,  and  that  is  eomgh. 
The  priest  answers:  'Yes,  there  is  a  heavenly 
love.'  The  majesty  of  the  ancient  cathedral, 
of  the  night,  of  the  silence,  inspires  him.  He 
speaks.  I  cannot  now  repeat  his  discourse,  it 
is  rather  confused  in  my  mind;  but  at  any  rate 
the  essence  of  it  is  this,  that  even  heavenly  love 
has  its  birth,  but  never  reaches  maturity  on 
earth.  The  old  man  almost  allows  himself  to  be 
led  into  making  a  confession.  With  bursting 
heart  and  burning  tongue  he  does  confess  to  not 
having  felt  any  inclination  towards  individuals 
nor  indeed  any  inclination  which  could  cause  him 
shame,  but  an  intellectual  and  moral  aspiration 
to  unite  himself  with  some  incorporeal  feminine 
spirit,  that  should  belong  completely  to  his 
incorporeal  being,  at  the  same  time  remaining 
sufficiently  distant  from  it,  to  admit  of  the  inter- 
vention of  love  between  the  two. " 

"Gracious!"  murmured  Noemi.  Carlino  was 
so  excited  that  he  did  not  hear  her. 

"The  old  man,"  said  he,  "seems  to  perceive 
in  this  union  a  human  trinity  similar  to  the  Divine 
Trinity,  and  therefore  finds  it  just,  finds  it  a  holy 
thing,  that  man  should  aspire  to  it.  At  last 
he  is  silent,  overcome  by  the  things  he  has 
said;  and  walks  towards  Notre  Dame.  The 
maiden  takes  his  arm.  Here  behold  the  evil  one, 
the  spirit  of  temptation.  You  yourselves  have 
seen  him!  Tell  me  now,  is  not  all  this  well 
thought  out,  is  it  not  well  arranged?  The  old 


Lac  d' Amour  33 

man  and  the  girl  flee  from  the  evil  spirit,  but  like 
the  sky,  so  their  hearts  grow  dark.  Now  I  need 
the  little  window  in  the  clouds,  with  the  tiny 
star  in  the  centre.  The  old  priest  and  the  girl 
should  silently  watch  the  star  quivering  in  the 
Lac  d' Amour,  and  many  secret  workings  of  their 
minds  should  culminate  in  this  idea;  perhaps, 
beyond  the  clouds  of  the  earth,  there  in  that 
distant  world!" 

Jeanne  had  not  spoken  a  single  word,  nor  shown 
in  any  way  that  she  was  listening  to  her  brother's 
story.  Leaning  over  the  parapet,  she  looked 
into  the  dark  water.  At  this  point  she  started 
impetuously. 

"But  surely  you  do  not  believe  this,"  she  ex- 
claimed. "You  know  that  these  are  delusions — 
dreams.  You  would  never  wish  me  to  believe 
such  things.  You  would  be  the  first  to  drive  me 
away  from  you  if  I  did. " 

"  No, "  protested  Car  lino. 

"Yes!  And  for  the  sake  of  producing  some- 
thing beautiful  in  literature  you,  also,  take  to 
nurturing  these  dreams,  which  are  already  ener- 
vating humanity  to  such  a  degree,  already  di- 
verting people  from  the  actualities  of  life!  I  do 
not  like  it  at  all.  An  unbeliever  like  you !  One 
who  is  convinced,  as  I  myself  am  convinced,  that 
we  are  merely  soap-bubbles  which  sparkle  for  a 
moment,  and  then  return  not  into  nothing,  but 
into  everything!" 

"I,  convinced?"  answered  Carlino,  in  astonish- 

3 


34  The  Saint 

ment.  "  I  am  not  convinced  of  anything.  I  am 
a  doubter.  It  is  my  system ;  you  know  that.  If 
now  some  one  were  to  tell  me  that  the  true  re- 
ligion was  that  of  the  Kaffirs,  or  that  of  the 
Redskins,  I  should  say,  It  may  well  be!  I  do 
not  know  them.  I  see  the  falsity  of  those  I  do 
know,  and  for  that  reason  I  should  certainly  not 
wish  you  to  become  a  believing  Catholic.  As  to 
driving  you  from  home " 

"Perhaps  I  had  better  leave  before  being 
driven  away?" 

So  saying,  Jeanne  took  Noemi's  arm.  Carlino 
begged  them  to  walk  round  the  Lac  d' Amour. 
Who  knows,  perhaps  the  little  window  in  heaven 
would  open.  He  wished  it  would.  Noemi,  re- 
calling the  conversation  of  a  few  hours  before, 
expressed  a  doubt  that  Fomalhaut  would  be  the 
star  to  appear  at  the  window. 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Carlino  thoughtfully. 
"  I  had  forgotten  Fomalhaut.  If  it  is  not  Fomal- 
haut now,  it  will  be  Fomalhaut  then. " 

But  Noemi  had  other  difficulties  to  suggest. 
What  if  no  star  appeared  at  the  window,  either 
large  or  small  ?  For  this  difficulty  Carlino  prompt- 
ly found  a  remedy.  The  star  will  be  there.  It 
may  be  minute,  lost  in  an  immense  profundity, 
but  it  will  be  there.  The  girl  does  not  see  it,  but 
the  priest  sees  it  with  the  long-sightedness  of 
decrepitude.  Later,  through  faith,  the  girl  dis- 
cerns it  also." 

"And  so  the  poor  girl,"  said  Jeanne  bitterly, 


Lac  d' Amour  3£ 

"relying  on  the  faith  of  an  old,  dim-sighted  priest, 
will  see  stars  where  there  are  none,  will  lose  her 
common-sense,  her  youth,  her  life,  her  all.  I 
suppose  you  will  end  by  having  her  buried  at 
the  Beguinage  ? " 

And  she  went  on  with  Noemi  without  waiting 
for  an  answer. 

They  had  now  walked  round  the  Lac  d' Amour, 
and  the  two  friends  paused  for  some  time  on  the 
other  bridge.  But  no  little  window  opened  in 
the  heavens.  The  great  distant  tower  of  the 
Halles,  the  enormous  campanile  of  Notre  Dame,  a 
squat  tower  near  the  pond,  the  pointed  roofs  of 
the  Be'guinage  stood  outlined  against  the  milky 
clouds,  like  a  venerable  assembly  of  old  men. 
Carli-no,  not  knowing  what  better  to  do,  began 
discoursing  in  a  loud  voice  on  the  most  appro- 
priate position  for  his  window. 

"What  day  is  this?"  Jeanne  asked  her  friend, 
under  her  breath. 

"Saturday." 

"To-morrow  I  will  speak  to  Carlino,  Monday 
and  Tuesday  we  will  settle  our  affairs,  Wednesday 
we  will  pack  our  boxes,  and  Thursday  we  will 
start.  You  can  write  to  your  sister  that  we  shall 
be  at  Subiaco  the  week  after  next. " 

"Don't  decide  so  suddenly.  Think  about 
it." 

"I  have  decided.  I  must  know.  If  it  is  he, 
I  will  not  be  a  hindrance  in  his  path.  But  I 
wish  to  see  him. " 


36  The  Saint 

"  We  will  talk  it  over  again  to-morrow,  Jeanne. 
Do  not  decide  yet." 

"  I  have  thought  it  over,  and  I  have  made  up 
my  mind. " 

Midnight  sounded  from  the  great  tower  of  the 
Halles.  High  up  in  the  clouds  rang  out  the  long 
solemn  melancholy  song  of  the  innumerable 
bells.  Noemi,  who  had  intended  to  have  her 
own  way,  was  silent,  her  heart  full  of  despondency. 
It  was  as  if  those  melancholy  voices  from  the 
darkening  sky  were  proclaiming  her  friend's 
destiny;  a  destiny  of  love  and  suffering,  which 
must  be  accomplished. 


CHAPTER  II 
DON  CLEMENTE 

THE  light  was  fading  in  Giovanni  Selva's 
study,  and  on  the  little  table  covered 
wi  th  books  and  papers.  Giovanni  rose  and  opened 
the  west  window.  The  horizon  was  on  fire 
behind  Subiaco,  along  the  oblique  line  of  the 
Sabine  hills,  which  stretch  from  Rocca  di  Cante- 
rano  and  Rocca  di  Mezzo  to  Rocca  San  Stefano. 
Subiaco,  that  pointed  pile  of  houses  large  and 
small  which  culminates  in  the  Rocca  del  Car- 
dinale,  was  veiled  in  shadow;  not  a  branch 
stirred  on  the  olives  clustered  behind  the  small, 
red  villa  with  green  blinds,  rising  on  the  summit 
of  the  circular  cliff,  round  whose  base  winds  the 
public  road;  not  a  branch  stirred  on  the  great 
oak  beside  it,  overhanging  the  little  ancient 
oratory  of  Santa  Maria  della  Febbre.  The  air, 
laden  with  the  odours  of  wild  herbs  and  recent 
rain,  came  fresh  from  Monte  Calvo.  It  was  a 
quarter  past  seven.  In  the  shell-shaped  tract 
watered  by  the  Anio  the  bells  were  ringing ;  first 
the  big  bell  of  Sant'  Andrea,  then  the  querulous 
bells  of  Santa  Maria  della  Valle;  high  up  on  the 

37 


38  The  Saint 

right,  from  the  little  white  church  near  the  great 
wood,  the  bells  of  the  Capuchins,  and  others  in 
the  far-away  distance.  A  woman's  voice,  sub- 
missive and  sweet,  the  voice  of  five  and  twenty, 
came  from  the  half-open  door  behind  Giovanni, 
saying  almost  timidly  in  French : 

"May  I  come  in?" 

Giovanni,  smiling,  turned  half  round,  and 
stretching  out  his  arm,  encircled  the  young  woman 
pressing  her  to  his  side  without  answering. 

She  felt  she  must  not  speak ;  that  her  husband's 
soul  was  following  the  dying  night,  and  the  mystic 
song  of  the  bells.  She  rested  her  head  on  his 
shoulder,  and  only  after  a  moment  of  religious 
silence  did  she  ask  softly : 

"  Shall  we  say  our  prayer  ?  " 

A  pressure  of  the  arm  encircling  her  was  the 
answer.  Neither  her  lips  nor  his  moved.  Only 
the  eyes  of  both  dilated,  straining  towards  the 
Infinite,  and  assumed  that  look  of  reverence 
and  sadness  which  mirrors  the  thoughts  that 
remain  unspoken,  the  uncertain  future,  the  dark 
portals  which  lead  to  God.  The  bells  became 
silent,  and  Signora  Selva,  fixing  her  blue  eyes 
on  her  husband's  eager  gaze,  offered  him  her 
lips.  The  man's  snowy  head  and  the  woman's 
fair  face  met  in  a  long  kiss  which  would  have 
filled  the  world  with  astonishment.  Maria 
d'Arxel,  at  one  and  twenty,  had  fallen  in  love 
with  Giovanni  Selva.  after  having  read  one  of 
his  books  on  religious  philosophy,  translated 


Don  Clemente  39 

into  French.  She  wrote  to  the  unknown  author 
in  such  ardent  words  of  admiration,  that  Selva, 
in  answering,  alluded  to  his  fifty-six  years  and 
his  white  hair.  The  girl  replied  that  she  was 
aware  of  both,  that  slie  neither  offered  nor 
asked  for  love,  she  only  craved  a  few  lines  from 
time  to  time.  Her  letters  sparkled  with  bril- 
liant intellect.  They  came  to  Selva  when  he  was 
passing  through  a  dark  crisis,  a  bitter  struggle, 
which  need  not  be  related  here.  He  thought  this 
Maria  d'Arxel  might  prove  his  saving  star.  He 
wrote  to  her  again. 

"Do  you  know  what  anniversary  this  is?" 
asked  Maria.  "  Do  you  remember  ? ' ' 

Giovanni  remembered;  it  was  the  anniversary 
of  their  first  meeting.  During  the  correspondence 
the  two  had  bared  the  very  depths  of  their  souls 
to  one  another  in  an  inexpressible  fervour  of 
sincerity,  while  as  yet  unacquainted  save  by 
means  of  portraits.  After  they  had  exchanged 
four  or  five  letters,  Giovanni  asked  his  unknown 
correspondent  for  her  likeness ;  a  request  she  had 
expected  and  dreaded.  The  girl  consented  on 
condition  of  a  speedy  restitution  of  the  photo- 
graph, and  was  in  agony  until  it  was  returned, 
accompanied  by  some  very  tender  words  from 
her  friend.  He  was  charmed  with  the  intel- 
lectual, passionate,  and  youthful  face,  with  the 
sweetness  of  the  great  eyes,  with  the  symmetry 
of  the  figure.  Then  when  they  had  arranged 
to  meet,  he  coming  from  the  Lake  of  Como,  she 


40  The  Saint 

from  Brussels  to  Hergyswyl  near  Lucerne,  both 
had  been  in  a  fever  of  apprehension.  She  re- 
flected : 

"The  portrait  pleased  him,  but  the  bearing  of 
the  real  person,  a  line,  the  colour  of  the  garments, 
the  manner  of  meeting,  the  first  words,  the  tone  of 
voice,  may  perhaps  destroy  his  love  at  one  blow." 

He  thought: 

"  She  knows  my  face,  ravaged  by  time,  my  white 
hair,  and  she  loves  them  in  the  picture,  but  I  am 
ageing  day  by  day;  perhaps  when  she  sees  me 
this  incredible  love  will  be  killed  at  a  blow. " 

He  had  reached  Hergyswyl  by  boat  some 
hours  before  her ;  she,  leaving  Basel  in  the  morning, 
arrived  by  the  Brunigbahn  in  the  afternoon. 

•'Do  you  know,"  Maria  continued,  "when  I 
did  not  see  you  at  the  station,  my  first  sensation 
was  one  of  relief;  I  trembled  so!  The  second 
sensation  was  different,  was  one  of  fright. " 

.Giovanni  smiled. 
You  never  told  me  that, "  said  he. 

The  young  wife  looked  up  at  him  and  smiled 
in  her  turn. 

"  Perhaps  you  yourself  have  never  told  me  quite 
everything  about  those  moments. " 

Giovanni  placed  his  hands  on  her  shoulders 
and  whispered  in  her  ear: 

"That  is  true." 

She  started,  and  then  laughed  at  herself  for 
starting,  and  Giovanni  laughed  with  her. 

"What,   what?"   she  cried,   her   face   aglow; 


Don  Clemente  41 

vexed  but  still  laughing.     Her  husband  whispered 
again,  in  a  tone  of  great  mystery : 
"That  your  hat  was  in  disorder!" 
"Oh,  that  is  not  true!     Really  not  true!" 
Sparkling  with  mirth,  and  at  the  same  time 
trembling  at  the  idea  of  the  great   danger   she 
had  encountered  unawares,  she  protested  that  it 
was  impossible;   she  had  looked  in  the  mirror  of 
her    nfaessaire    so  many  times  before    reaching 
Hergyswyl. 

Every  moment  of  that  hour  passed  two  years 
before,  they  recalled  together  jestingly;  she  often 
kissing  his  breast,  and  he  her  hair.  Giovanni 
had  not  waited  for  her  at  the  station,  where  there 
was  a  crowd  of  holiday-makers,  but  a  few  yards 
distant,  on  the  road  leading  to  the  hotel.  He 
had  seen  her  coming,  tall,  slender,  with  a  tiny 
sprig  of  Olea  fragrans,  the  sign  they  had  chosen, 
at  her  breast.  He  had  approached  her,  his  head 
bared,  and  they  had  pressed  one  another's  hands 
in  silence.  He  had  signed  to  the  porter,  who  was 
following  with  her  travelling  bag,  to  precede  them. 
They  had  followed  slowly,  their  throats  contracted 
by  a  nameless  emotion.  She  had  been  the  first  to 
murmur,  in  her  sweet  refined  voice :  "  Mon  ami. " 
Then  he  had  spoken  in  subdued  tones,  in 
broken  sentences,  of  his  infatuation,  of  his  love, 
of  his  ecstasy,  and  had  not  noticed  when  they 
passed  the  hotel.  Twice  the  porter  called  after 
them: 

"Monsieur?    Madame!    C'est  id!"  and  neither 


42  The  Saint 

had  heard.  Then  the  girl  had  gone  to  her  room 
smiling,  but  pale  with  fatigue,  and  with  aching 
head.  Giovanni  went  out  again  to  wander 
among  the  level  gardens  and  orchards  of  Hergys- 
wyl,  breathing  hard  like  a  man  exhausted  by 
excess  of  feeling,  blessing  every  stone  and  every 
leaf  of  this  verdant  corner  of  a  foreign  land,  the 
lake,  sleeping  in  its  bosom,  the  crowd  of  great 
religious  mountains;  blessing  God,  who  at  his 
time  of  life  had  sent  him  such  a  love.  And  he 
had  returned  soon,  too  soon,  to  the  hotel.  The 
only  other  guests  there  on  that  May  day,  an  old 
German  professor  and  his  daughter,  had  gone  up 
Mount  Pilatus.  There  was  no  one  in  the  little 
reading-room.  In  that  reading-room  Maria  and 
Giovanni  had  spent  two  happy  hours,  hand  in 
hand,  talking  with  hushed  voices,  often  trem- 
bling in  fear  lest  some  one  should  come  in. 

"Do  you  remember,"  said  Maria,  "that  there 
was  a  fireplace  in  the  room,  near  the  sofa  where 
we  sat?" 

"Yes,  dear." 

"And  that  it  was  cold,  although  it  was  May; 
so  cold  that  the  waiter  came  in  to  light  the  fire?" 

"  Yes,  and  it  was  then  I  made  you  cry. " 

'Could  you  repeat  those  same  words  to-day?" 

"Oh,  no!" 

So  saying,  Giovanni  kissed  his  wife's  white 
forehead  reverently,  as  if  it  were  a  holy  thing. 
When  the  waiter  came  in  to  light  the  fire  in  the 
little  salon  at  Hergyswyl,  Giovanni  had  dropped 


Don  Clemente  43 

the  beloved  hand,  and  had  said,  while  the  servant 
still  lingered: 

"  The  old  log  will  surely  burn  on  to  the  end,  but 
who  can  tell  how  long  the  youthful  flame  will 
last?"  Maria  had  not  answered,  but  had  looked 
at  him,  her  eyes  dilating,  and  dimmed  by  the 
cold  touch  of  the  unjust  suspicion,  as  the  glass 
of  a  hothouse  is  dimmed  by  the  touch  of  a  frost 
outside. 

No,  Giovanni  had  never  again  harboured  such 
a  thought.  He  and  Maria  often  said  to  each 
other  that  perhaps  there  was  no  other  union 
on  earth  like  theirs,  so  penetrated  with,  so  full 
of  peace  derived  from  the  solemnly  sweet  and 
grave  certainty  that,  no  matter  how  God  might 
order  their  existence  after  death,  their  spirits 
would  surely  be  united  in  the  love  of  the  Divine 
Will.  Nevertheless,  they  did  not  neglect  to  lay 
the  desire  of  their  souls  before  the  Almighty. 
The  prayer  they  had  just  prayed  together,  both 
wrapt  in  inward  contemplation,  had  been  com- 
posed by  Giovanni,  and  ran  as  follows: 

"  Father,  let  it  be  with  us  as  Jesus  prayed  that 
last  night;  life  with  Him  in  Thee,  for  all  eternity." 

Even  in  the  present  they  were  two  in  one,  in  the 
narrowest,  the  most  accurate  sense  of  the  phrase, 
for  their  duality  was  also  perceptible  in  their 
spiritual  union;  as,  when  a  green  current  mingles 
with  a  blue  current,  it  sometimes  happens,  at  the 
beginning  of  their  united  course,  that  broken 
waves  flash  here  and  there — some  the  colour  of 


44  The  Saint 

the  woods,  some  as  blue  as  the  sky.  Giovanni 
was  a  mystic,  who  harmonised  all  human  affections 
with  Divine  love,  in  his  heart.  His  wife,  who  had 
come  through  him  from  Protestantism  to  a  Ca- 
tholicism thirsting  for  reason,  had  entered  into 
his  mystic  soul  as  far  as  was  possible ;  but  love  for 
Giovanni  predominated  in  her  over  every  other 
sentiment.  She  was  rich  and  he  comfortably 
off,  but  they  lived  almost  poorly,  that  they  might 
have  greater  means  for  their  broad  charities. 
They  lived  in  Rome  in  the  winter,  in  Subiaco 
from  April  to  November,  in  the  modest  villa  of 
which  they  had  hired  the  second  floor.  Only  on 
books  and  on  their  correspondence  did  they 
spend  freely.  Giovanni  was  preparing  a  work 
on  reason  in  Christian  morality.  His  wife  read 
for  him,  made  extracts,  took  notes. 

"  I  should  so  much  like  to  go  to  Hergyswyl  next 
summer,"  said  she,  "that  you  might  write  the 
last  chapter  of  the  book  there,  the  chapter  on 
Purity  I" 

So  saying,  she  clasped  her  hands,  happy  in  the 
vision  of  the  little  village,  nestling  among  the 
apple  trees  at  the  head  of  the  tiny  bay,  the  calm 
lake,  the  great  religious  mountains,  the  quiet  days, 
spent  in  work  and  peaceful  contemplation.  She 
was  acquainted  with  the  entire  plan  of  her  hus- 
band's work,  with  the  subject  of  each  chapter, 
with  the  principal  arguments. 

The  chapter  on  Purity  was  her  favourite  be- 
cause of  its  rational  trend.  In  it  her  husband 


Don  Clemente  45 

intended  to  propose  and  to  solve  the  following 
problem:  "Why  does  Christianity  exalt,  as  an 
element  of  human  perfection,  that  renunciation 
which  subjects  man  to  fierce  struggles,  is  of  no 
benefit  to  any  one,  and  closes  the  door  of  existence 
to  possible  human  lives?"  The  answer  was  to  be 
deduced  from  the  study  of  the  moral  phenomenon 
in  its  historical  origins,  and  its  development;  to 
this  study  the  first  two  chapters  of  the  work  were 
dedicated.  Selva  showed  by  the  example  of 
the  brutes,  who  sacrifice  themselves  for  their 
young,  or  for  companions  of  their  own  kind,  and 
are  sometimes  capable  of  strictly  monogamous 
unions,  that  in  inferior  animal  nature  the  moral 
instinct  becomes  manifest  and  develops  in  pro- 
portion as  the  carnal  instinct  diminishes.  He 
maintained  the  hypothesis  that  the  human  con- 
science was  thus  being  progressively  developed 
in  the  inferior  species.  He  now  proposed  to 
return  to  this  conclusign,  and  to  lay  down  the 
general  principle  that  the  renunciation  of  carnal 
pleasures  for  a  satisfaction  of  a  higher  order 
signifies  the  striving  of  the  species  towards  a 
superior  form  of  existence.  He  would  then  ex- 
amine the  exceptional  cases  of  individuals  who, 
with  no  other  end  in  view  than  that  of  honour- 
ing the  Divinity,  oppose  to  the  carnal  instincts — 
greatly  stimulated  in  them  by  intellect  and  sensual 
imagination — a  still  stronger  instinct  of  renun- 
ciation. He  would  show  that  many  creeds 
furnish  such  examples  and  extol  renunciation, 


46  The  Saint 

but  that  it  must,  however,  always  remain  a 
spontaneous  action  on  the  part  of  the  individual. 
He  was  willing  to  admit  that  it  would  be  both 
a  blameworthy  and  foolish  action,  did  it  not 
correspond  to  a  mysterious  impulse  of  Nature 
herself — to  that  so-called  spiritual  element — 
which  persists  in  its  eternal  antagonism  to  the 
carnal  instinct,  in  obedience  to  a  cosmic  law. 
Unconscious  collaborators  of  Him  who  governs 
the  universe,  these  heroes  of  supreme  renunciation 
imagine  that  only  through  their  sacrifice  are  they 
honouring  Him,  while  in  reality  they  incarnate, 
according  to  the  Divine  design,  the  progressive 
energy  of  the  species,  strengthening  their  own 
spiritual  element,  that  it  may  have  the  power  to 
create  for  itself  a  superior  corporeal  form,  more  in 
the  likeness  of  the  Master ;  thus  their  purity  is  hu- 
man perfection,  is  the  elevation  on  which  our  hu- 
man nature  culminates,  and  touches  the  nebulous 
beginnings  of  an  unknown  superhuman  nature. 

"When  I  think  of  incarnate  purity,"  said 
Giovanni,  "  I  see  Don  Clemente  before  me.  Did 
I  tell  you  he  is  coming  to  the  meeting  to-night? 
He  will  come  down  directly  after  supper. " 

Maria  started.  "Oh!"  said  she,  "I  almost 
forgot  to  tell  you  Noemi  has  written  to  me.  She 
was  to  leave  Milan  yesterday  with  the  Dessalles. 
They  are  going  to  stay  in  Rome  a  day  or  two,  and 
then  they  are  coming  here. " 

"You  recalled  this  because  I  mentioned  Don 
Clemente,"  said  Giovanni  smiling. 


Don  Clemente  47 

"Yes,"  replied  his  wife;  "nevertheless,  you 
know  I  do  not  believe. " 

How  could  Don  Clemente's  lofty  forehead,  his 
blue  eyes,  so  serene  and  pure,  have  known  passion? 
In  the  soft,  submissive,  almost  timid  voice  of  the 
young  Benedictine  there  was — to  Maria's  mind — 
a  chastity  too  delicate,  a  purity  too  virginal. 

"You  do  not  believe,"  Giovanni  answered, 
"and  perhaps,  after  all,  you  are  right;  perhaps, 
after  all,  he  is  not  Maironi.  Still  it  will  be  better 
to  let  him  know  to-night,  in  some  way,  that 
Signora  Dessalle  is  coming  to  Subiaco,  and  that 
she  will,  of  course,  visit  the  convents.  Especially 
as  he  would  be  obliged  to  accompany  her,  being 
the  Father  who  receives  visitors." 

There  could  be  no  doubt  about  this.  Maria 
herself  would  warn  him.  As  she  did  not  believe 
him  to  have  been  Jeanne's  lover  it  would  be  easier 
for  her  to  speak  naturally  to  him  of  her.  But 
what  a  terrible  thing  it  would  be  if  he  really  were 
Maironi,  and  if  they  should  meet  face  to  face, 
quite  unprepared,  in  front  of  the  monastery,  he 
and  the  woman!  Was  Giovanni  quite  sure  the 
monk  was  coming  to  the  meeting?  Yes,  quite 
sure.  Don  Clemente  had  obtained  the  abbot's 
permission  while  Giovanni  was  at  the  convent,  and 
had  at  once  told  him.  He  was  coming,  and 
would  bring  with  him,  and  introduce  to  them,  the 
man  who  helped  the  kitchen-gardener,  of  whom 
he  had  already  spoken  to  Giovanni.  Thus, 
another  time,  the  gardener  could  come  alone,  and 


48  The  Saint 

would  teach  him  to  bank  up  the  potatoes  in  the 
little  piece  of  ground  he  had  hired  behind  the 
villa,  intending  to  cultivate  it  with  his  own  hands. 
Manual  labour,  to  which  he  had  recently  taken, 
was  a  pet  hobby  of  Giovanni's  of  which  Maria  did 
not  altogether  approve,  deeming  it  incompatible 
with  his  habits  and  with  his  age.  However,  she 
respected  his  whim  and  held  her  peace.  At  that 
moment  the  girl  from  Affile,  who  served  them, 
came  to  tell  them  that  their  guests  were  on  their 
way  upstairs,  and  that  supper  would  be  ready 
shortly. 

Three  people,  in  fact,  were  ascending  the  narrow 
winding  stair  of  the  little  villa.  Giovanni  went 
down  to  meet  them.  First  came  his  young  friend 
Leyni,  who,  on  greeting  Giovanni,  begged  to  be 
excused  for  preceding  the  two  ecclesiastics  who 
were  his  companions. 

"  I  am  master  of  ceremonies, "  he  explained,  and 
proceeded  to  introduce  them  there  on  the  stairs. 

"The  Abbe"  Marinier  of  Geneva.  Don  Paolo 
Fare  of  Varese,  with  whose  name  you  are  already 
acquainted." 

Selva  was  slightly  perplexed;  nevertheless  he 
at  once  invited  his  guests  to  follow  him,  and  con- 
ducted them  to  the  terrace,  where  some  chairs 
had  been  placed. 

"And  Dane?"  said  he  anxiously  to  Leyni, 
taking  his  arm.  "And  Professor  Minucci,  and 
Father  Salvati." 

"They  have  arrived,"  the  young  man  replied, 


Don  Clemente  49 

smiling.  "They  are  at  the  Aniene.  I  must  tell 
you  about  it — but  it  is  a  long  story!  They  will 
be  here  presently." 

Meanwhile  the  Abb<§  Marinier  had  gone  out  on 
the  terrace,  and  now  exclaimed: 

"Oh,  c'est  admirable!" 

Do*  Paolo  Fare",  always  loyal  to  his  native 
Como,  murmured,  "Beautiful,  beautiful  indeed  1" 
as  if  he  would  have  liked  to  add,  "but  if  you 
could  only  see  my  country!" 

Maria  joined  them,  and  the  introductions  were 
repeated ;  then  Leyni  told  his  story  while  Marinier 
let  his  little  sparkling  eyes  wander  over  the  land- 
scape, from  the  pyramid-shaped  Subiaco,  standing 
out  with  a  dark  scenic  effect  against  the  bright 
background  in  the  west,  to  the  wild  hornbeams 
close  by,  which  shut  out  the  east. 

Don  Far£  was  devouring  Selva  with  his  eyes, 
Selva,  the  author  of  critical  essays  on  the  Old  and 
New  Testament,  and  especially  of  a  book  on  the 
basis  of  future  Catholic  theology,  which  had  ele- 
vated and  transfigured  his  faith.  Baron  Leyni 
was  telling  his  story.  At  the  station  of  Mandela  it 
had  been  very  windy,  and  Professor  Dane  greatly 
feared  he  had  taken  cold;  suspecting  that  there 
would  be  no  cognac  in  the  house  of  such  an 
alcohol  hater  as  Selva,  and,  moreover,  the  hour 
having  arrived  at  which  it  was  his  daily  custom  to 
take  two  eggs,  he  had  stopped  at  the  Albergo  dell' 
Aniene  for  the  eggs  and  cognac.  On  the  terrace 
of  the  restaurant,  which  faced  the  river,  there 

4 


50  The  Saint 

was  too  much  air,  and  in  the  small  adjacent  rooms 
there  was  too  little,  so  he  had  ordered  his  repast 
served  in  a  room  at  the  hotel,  and  had  sent  the 
eggs  back  twice.  Then  the  others  had  walked  on, 
leaving  him  in  the  company  of  Professor  Minucci 
and  Father  Salvati. 

As  Professor  Dane,  who  was  so  delicate  and 
sensitive  to  the  cold,  was  not  of  the  party,  Gio- 
vanni proposed  having  supper  on  the  terrace. 
He  at  once  abandoned  the  idea,  however,  on 
perceiving  that  it  did  not  suit  the  Abb£  from 
Geneva.  The  elegant,  worldly  Marinier  took  as 
great  care  of  his  own  person  as  did  his  friend  Dane, 
but  with  more  dissimulation  and  without  the  ex- 
cuse of  ill-health.  He  had  not  stayed  to  supper 
at  the  Aniene  with  his  friend,  because,  on  a 
previous  visit  to  Subiaco,  he  had  found  the 
cuisine  of  that  hotel  too  simple  to  suit  his  taste, 
and  he  had  hopes  of  a  French  supper  from  Signora 
Selva.  Baron  Leynl  knew  well  how  fallacious 
such  hopes  were;  but  in  a  spirit  of  mischief  he 
refrained  from  enlightening  him.  There  was 
barely  room  for  the  five  people  in  the  tiny  dining- 
room.  It  was  fortunate  the  other  two  had  not 
come.  In  fact,  neither  the  Abbe"  Marinier  nor 
Don  Far6  was  expected,  but  others  who  had 
been  expected  were  absent.  A  monk  and  a 
priest,  men  of  repute  from  northern  Italy,  who 
should  have  been  present,  had  both  written  to 
apologise  for  their  absence,  to  the  lively  regret  of 
Selva,  of  Fare",  and  of  Leynl.  Marinier,  on  the 


Don  Clemente  51 

otner  hand,  proffered  his  apologies  for  having 
intruded.  Dane  was  responsible  for  his  presence, 
as  Leyni  was  for  the  presence  of  Don  Paolo  Far6. 
Selva  protested.  Friends  of  his  friends  were,  of 
course,  always  welcome.  Leynl  and  Dane  both 
knew  they  were  free  to  bring  any  one  in  whom 
they  had  confidence,  any  one  who  shared  their 
views.  Maria  was  silent;  she  was  not  greatly 
pleased,  with  Abbe  Marinier.  She  also  felt  that 
Leynl  and  Dane  would  have  done  well  had  they 
abstained  from  introducing  strangers  without 
notifying  Giovanni.  Marinier  spoke,  with  slightly 
knitted  brows,  after  a  close  scrutiny  of  his  bean 
soup. 

"I  fear,"  said  he,  "we  shall  weary  Signora 
Selva  if  we  talk  now  of  the  subject  to  be  discussed 
at  the  meeting." 

Maria  reassured  him.  She  should  not  be 
present  at  the  meeting,  but  she  took  the  liveliest 
interest  in  its  objects. 

"Very  well,  then,"  Marinier  continued.  "It 
will  be  a  great  advantage  to  me  to  become  better 
acquainted  with  those  objects,  for  Dane  has 
spoken  of  them  only  in  rather  vague  terms,  and 
I  do  not  feel  sure  that  I  entirely  share  your  views." 

Don  Paole  could  not  restrain  a  movement  of 
impatience.  Selva  himself  seemed  slightly  an- 
noyed, because  unanimity  of  opinion  on  certain 
fundamental  principles  was  surely  necessary. 
Without  this  unanimity  the  meeting  might  prove 
worse  than  useless,  even  dangerous. 


5*  The  Saint 

"Well,"  said  he,  "there  are  many  Catholics 
in  Italy  and  outside  of  Italy  who,  with  us,  desire 
certain  reforms  in  the  Church.  We  wish  them  to 
be  brought  about  without  rebellion,  to  be  the 
work  of  the  legitimate  authorities.  We  desire 
reforms  in  religious  instruction,  in  the  ceremonies, 
in  the  discipline  of  the  clergy,  reforms  even  in  the 
highest  sphere  of  ecclesiastical  government.  To 
obtain  these  ends  it  is  necessary  to  create  a  current 
of  opinion  strong  enough  to  induce  the  legitimate 
authorities  to  act  in  conformity  with  our  views, 
be  it  twenty,  thirty,  or  even  fifty  years  hence. 
Now  we  who  hold  these  opinions  are  widely 
dispersed,  and,  save  in  the  case  of  those  who 
publish  articles  or  books,  are  ignorant  of  one 
another's  views.  Very  probably  a  large  number 
of  pious  and  cultured  people  in  the  Catholic 
world  feel  as  we  do ;  and  I  believe  it  would  afford 
the  greatest  assistance  in  the  spreading  of  our 
opinions  if  we  could,  at  least,  know  one  another. 
To-night  a  few  of  us  are  to  meet  together  for  a 
first  discussion." 

While  Giovanni  spoke,  the  others  kept  their 
eyes  fixed  on  the  Genevese.  The  Abb6  gazed 
steadily  as  his  plate.  A  brief  silence  followed,  and 
Giovanni  was  the  first  to  break  it. 

"Has  Professor  Dane  not  told  you  this?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes,  yes,"  replied  the  Abbe",  raising  his  eyes 
from  his  plate  at  last;  "  he  has  told  me  something 
similar." 


Don  Clemente  53 

The  tone  was  that  of  one  who  only  half  approves. 
But,  why,  then,  had  he  come?  Don  Paolo 
looked  displeased;  the  others  were  silent.  An 
embarrassing  pause  ensued.  At  last  Marinier  said : 

"We  will  discuss  this  again  to-night." 

"Yes,"  answered  Selva  quietly;  "we  will 
discuss  it  again  to-night." 

He  felt  he  had  found  an  adversary  in  this  abbe", 
and  he  thought  Dane  had  committed  an  error 
both  of  judgment  and  of  tact  in  inviting  him  to 
the  meeting.  At  the  same  time  he  comforted 
himself  with  the  tacit  reflection  that  it  would  be 
an  advantage  to  hear  all  possible  objections  set 
forth;  and  that  a  friend  of  Professor  Dane  was, 
at  least,  sure  to  be  trustworthy,  and  would  not 
divulge  names  and  speeches  it  were  better  to  keep 
secret  for  the  present.  Young  di  Leyni,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  very  apprehensive  of  this  danger 
knowing  how  many  and  how  various  were  the 
Abb6  Marinier's  acquaintances  in  Rome,  where  he 
had  lived  for  five  years,  pursuing  certain  historical 
studies;  and  he  was  also  annoyed  at  not  having 
known  of  his  coming  in  time  to  write  to  Selva, 
suggesting  the  advisability  of  seeking  to  propiti- 
ate him,  beginning  through  his  palate.  The  table 
at  the  Selvas',  always  exquisitely  neat,  and 
decorated  with  flowers,  was  most  frugal,  and 
very  simple  as  regards  food.  The  Selvas  never 
drank  wine,  and  the  pale,  acid  wine  of  Subiaco 
could  only  have  a  souring  effect  on  a  man  ac* 
customed  to  French  vintages. 


54  The  Saint 

The  girl  from  Affile  had  already  served  the 
coffee,  when,  at  the  same  moment,  Don  Clemente 
arrived  on  foot  from  Santa  Scolastica,  and  Dane, 
Professor  Salvati,  and  Professor  Minucci,  in  a  two- 
horse  carriage,  from  Subiaco.  But  Don  Clemente, 
who  was  followed  by  his  gardener,  seeing  the 
carriage  approaching  the  gate  of  the  villa,  and 
understanding  that  it  brought  guests  for  the 
Selvas,  hastened  his  steps,  that  Giovanni  might 
see  the  gardener  and  speak  with  him  a  few  mo- 
ments before  the  meeting. 

The  Selvas  and  their  three  companions  had 
risen  from  the  table,  and  Maria,  coming  out 
to  the  terrace  on  the  arm  of  the  gallant  Abb6 
Marinier,  saw,  in  spite  of  the  growing  darkness, 
the  Benedictine  on  the  steep  path  leading  up  from 
the  gate  which  opened  upon  the  public  road. 
She  greeted  him  from  above,  and  begged  him  to 
wait  for  a  light  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  She 
herself  descended  the  winding  stairs  with  the 
light,  and  signed  to  Don  Clemente  that  she  wished 
to  speak  to  him,  casting  a  significant  glance  in 
the  direction  of  the  man  standing  behind  him. 
Don  Clemente  turned,  and  requested  him  to  wait 
outside  under  the  acacias.  Then,  having  as- 
cended a  few  steps  at  the  lady's  silent  invi- 
tation, he  stopped  to  listen  to  what  she  had  to 
tell  him. 

She  spoke  hastily  of  her  three  guests,  par- 
ticularly of  the  Abb6  Marinier,  saying  she  was 
much  annoyed  on  account  of  her  husband,  who 


Don  Clemente  55 

had  such  faith  in  this  cherished  idea  of  a  Catholic 
association,  and  who  would  now  find  himself 
confronted  with  an  unexpected  opposition.  She 
wished  Don  Clemente  to  know  this  that  he  might 
be  prepared.  She  herself  had  come  to  explain 
to  him,  because  her  husband  could  not  leave 
his  guests  at  that  moment.  At  the  same  time 
she  would  say  good-night  to  Don  Clemente,  as 
she  did  not  intend  to  be  present  at  the  meeting, 
being  a  woman  and  so  ignorant.  Perhaps  she 
should  meet  him  at  the  monastery  in  a  few  days. 
Was  not  he  the  Padre  who  received  visitors? 
She  would  probably  be  going  to  Santa  Scolastica 
in  three  or  four  days,  with  her  sister 

At  this  point  Signora  Selva  involuntarily 
raised  the  light  to  observe  her  companion's  face 
more  narrowly,  but  she  at  once  repented  of  the 
action,  as  if  she  had  failed  in  respect  towards  that 
soul  which  was  surely  holy,  surely  in  harmony  with 
the  manly  and  virginal  beauty  of  the  tall  slender 
person,  with  the  head  habitually  held  erect,  in  a 
pose  almost  military  in  its  frank  modesty;  with 
the  face  so  noble  in  its  spacious  forehead,  in  its 
clear  blue  eyes,  expressing  at  the  same  time 
womanly  sweetness  and  manly  fire. 

"There  will  also  be  an  intimate  friend  of  my 
sister's,  a  certain  Signora  Dessalle, "  she  added, 
in  a  low  voice,  as  if  ashamed. 

Don  Clemente  turned  his  head  away,  starting 
violently,  and  Maria,  feeling  the  counter-shock, 
trembled.  Then  it  was  he?  He  at  once  turned 


56  The  Saint 

towards  her  again,  his  face  slightly  flushed,  but 
composed. 

"Pardon  me,"  said  he,  "what  is  the  lady's 
name?" 

"Whose,  Signora  Dessalle's?" 

"Yes." 

"Her  name  is  Jeanne." 

"About  what  age  is  she?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  should  say  from  thirty  to 
thirty-five. " 

Maria  was  now  completely  at  a  loss  to  under- 
stand. The  Padre  put  these  questions  with  such 
indifference,  such  calmness!  She  herself  risked 
a  question. 

"Do  you  know  her,  Padre?" 

Don  Clemente  made  no  answer.  At  this  point 
poor,  gouty  Dane  arrived,  having  dragged  him- 
self up  from  the  gate  with  great  difficulty,  leaning 
on  Professor  Minucci's  arm.  They  were  both  in- 
timate friends,  and  Signora  Selva  welcomed  them 
kindly,  but  in  a  somewhat  absent  manner. 

The  meeting  was  held  in  Giovanni's  little  study. 
It  was  very  small  and  as — out  of  regard  for  Dane 
and  his  rheums — the  windows  could  not  be  opened, 
the  fiery  Don  Far6  felt  he  should  stifle,  and  said 
as  much,  in  his  outspoken  Lombard  fashion. 
The  others  pretended  not  to  have  heard,  except 
Leynl  who  signed  to  him  not  to  insist,  and  Gio- 
vanni, who  opened  the  door  leading  to  the  corridor, 
and  the  one  beyond  opening  upon  the  terrace, 


Don  Clemente  57 

Dane  at  once  perceived  an  odour  of  damp  woods, 
and  the  doors  had  to  be  closed  again.  An  old 
petroleum  lamp  was  burning  on  the  writing-desk. 
Professor  Minucci,  who  had  weak  eyes,  asked 
timidly  for  a  shade ;  which  was  looked  for,  found, 
and  put  in  place.  Don  Paolo  grumbled  under 
his  breath:  "This  is  an  infirmary!"  His  friend 
Leynl,  who  also  thought  these  numerous  petty 
cares  should  be  set  aside  at  such  a  moment,  ex- 
perienced an  unpleasant  sensation  of  coldness. 
Giovanni  experienced  the  same  sensation,  but  in 
a  reflex  manner,  for  he  knew  the  impression  that 
those  present,  who  were  strangers  to  them,  must 
receive  of  Dane  and  perhaps  also  of  Minucci. 
He  himself  knew  them  well.  Dane,  with  all  his 
colds  and  his  nerves  and  his  sixty- two  years, 
possessed,  besides  great  learning,  an  indomitable 
vigour  of  mind  and  a  steadfast  moral  courage. 
Andrea  Minucci,  in  spite  of  his  disordered  fair 
hair,  his  spectacles ,  and  a  certain  awkwardness  in 
his  movements,  which  gave  him  the  appearance 
of  a  learned  German,  was  a  youthful  and  most 
ardent  soul,  tried  in  the  fire  of  life,  not  sparkling 
on  the  surface  like  the  soul  of  the  Lombard,  but 
enveloped  in  its  own  flame,  severe,  and,  probably, 
stronger. 

Giovanni  began  speaking  in  a  frank,  open  way. 
He  thanked  those  present  for  coming,  and  excused 
the  absent  ones,  the  monk  and  the  priest,  at  the 
same  time  expressing  regret  for  their  absence. 
He  said  that  in  any  case  their  adherence  was 


58  The  Saint 

insured,  and  he  insisted  upon  the  importance  of 
their  adherence.  He  added,  speaking  louder  and 
more  slowly,  and  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  Abbe 
Marinier,  that  for  the  time  being  he  deemed  it 
prudent  not  to  divulge  anything  regarding  either 
the  meeting,  or  any  measures  which  might  be 
adopted ;  and  he  begged  all  to  consider  themselves 
bound  in  honour  to  silence.  He  then  explained, 
rather  more  fully  than  he  had  done  at  supper, 
the  idea  he  had  conceived,  and  the  object  of  the 
meeting. 

"And  now,"  he  concluded,  "let  each  one 
express  his  opinion." 

A  profound  silence  followed.  The  Abbe  Mari- 
nier was  about  to  speak  when  Dane  rose  feebly 
to  his  feet.  His  pale,  fleshless  face,  refined  and 
full  of  intellect,  wore  a  look  of  solemn  gravity. 
"  I  believe, "  said  he  in  Italian,  which  sounded 
foreign  and  formal,  but  which  was  nevertheless 
warm  with  feeling,  "  that  finding  ourselves,  as  we 
now  do,  united  at  the  beginning  of  a  religious 
movement,  we  should  at  once  do  two  things.  The 
first  is  to  concentrate  our  souls  in  God,  silently 
each  in  his  own  way,  until  we  feel  the  presence  in 
us  of  God  Himself,  the  desire  of  Him,  His  very 
glory,  in  our  hearts.  I  will  now  do  this,  and  I 
beg  you  to  do  it  with  me. " 

So  saying,  Professor  Dane  crossed  his  arms 
over  his  breast,  bent  his  head,  and  closed  his  eyes. 
The  others  rose,  and  all  save  Abbe"  Marinier  clasped 
their  hands.  The  Abbe",  with  a  sweeping  gesture 


Don  Clemente  59 

which  embraced  the  air,  brought  them  together 
on  his  breast.  The  soft  complaining  of  the  lamp, 
a  step  on  the  floor  below  could  be  distinctly  heard. 
Marinier  was  the  first  to  glance  up  furtively,  to 
ascertain  if  the  others  still  prayed.  Dane  raised 
his  head,  and  said: 

"Amen." 

"The  second  thing!"  he  added.  "We  propose 
to  ourselves  to  obey  in  all  things  the  legitimate 
ecclesiastical  authority " 

Don  Paolo  Fare  burst  out,  exclaiming:  "That 
must  depend!" 

The  vibration  of  sudden  thought,  the  muffled 
rumbling  of  unspoken  words,  shook  all  present. 
Dane  said  slowly:  "Exercised  according  to  just 
principles.  "  The  movement  shrunk  to  a  murmur 
of  assent,  and  then  ceased.  Dane  went  on: 
"And  now  one  thing  more!  Let  there  never  be 
hatred  of  any  one  on  our  lips  nor  in  our  hearts!" 

Don  Paolo  burst  out  again:  "No,  not  hatred 
but  indignation!  '  Circumspiciens  eos  cum  ira!  '  " 

"Yes,"  said  Don  Clemente  in  his  sweet,  soft 
voice;  "when  we  shall  have  enthroned  Christ 
within  us;  when  we  shall  feel  the  wrath  of  pure 
love." 

Don  Paolo,  who  was  near  him,  made  no  answer; 
he  looked  at  him,  his  eyes  suffused  with  tears, 
and,  seizing  his  hand,  carried  it  to  his  lips.  The 
Benedictine  drew  back,  startled,  his  face  aflame. 

"  And  we  shall  not  enthrone  Christ  within  us, " 
said  Giovanni,  much  moved,  and  pleased  with 


60  The  Saint 

the  mystic  breath  he  seemed  to  feel  passing  over 
the  assembly,  "if  we  do  not  purify  our  ideas  of 
reform  through  love;  if,  when  the  time  comes  to 
operate,  we  do  not  first  purify  our  hands  and  our 
instruments.  This  indignation,  this  wrath  of 
which  you,  Don  Paolo,  speak,  is  really  a  powerful 
snare  which  the  evil  one  uses  against  us ;  powerful 
precisely  because  it  bears  the  semblance  of  virtue 
and  sometimes,  as  is  the  case  with  the  saints 
really  has  the  substance  of  virtue.  In  us  it  is 
nearly  always  pure  malevolence,  because  we  do  not 
know  how  to  love.  The  prayer  I  love  best,  after 
the  Pater  Noster,  is  the  prayer  of  Unity,  which 
unites  us  all  in  the  spirit  of  Christ,  when  He 
prays  thus  to  the  Father:  '  Ut  et  ipsi  in  nobis 
unum  sint. '  The  desire  and  hope  are  always 
strong  within  us  of  a  union  in  God  with  those  of 
our  brothers  whose  beliefs  separate  them  from  us. 
Therefore  say  now  whether  you  accept  my  pro- 
posal to  found  this  association.  First  discuss  the 
question,  and  then,  if  the  proposal  be  accepted 
we  will  examine  the  means  of  promoting  it. " 

Don  Paolo  exclaimed  impetuously,  that  the 
principle  needed  no  discussion;  and  Minucci  ob- 
served, in  a  submissive  tone,  that  the  object  of 
the  meeting  was  known  to  all  before  they  came ; 
therefore,  by  their  presence,  they  had  implied 
their  approval  and  their  willingness  to  bind 
themselves  together  in  a  common  action;  the 
question  of  ways  and  means  remaining  still  un- 
decided. Abbe"  Marinier  asked  permission  to  speak, 


Don  Clemente  61 

"I  am  really  very  sorry,"  he  said  smiling, 
"but  I  have  not  brought  even  the  smallest  thread 
with  which  to  bind  myself.  I  also  am  one  of 
those  who  see  many  things  going  wrong  in  the 
Church.  Still,  when  Signer  Selva  carefully  ex- 
plained his  views  to  me  (first  at  supper  and  then 
here),  views  which  I  had  not  clearly  understood 
from  my  friend  Professor  Dane's  explanation, 
certain  objections,  which  I  consider  serious, 
forced  themselves  upon  me." 

"Exactly,"  thought  Minucci,  who  had  heard 
how  ambitious  Marinier  was;  "if  you  look  for 
promotion,  you  must  not  join  us;"  and  he  added 
aloud :  "  Let  us  hear  them. " 

"  In  the  first  place,  gentlemen, "  the  clever  Abbe" 
said,  "it  seems  to  me  you  have  begun  with  the 
second  meeting.  I  may  say,  with  all  due  respect, 
that  you  remind  me  of  a  party  of  good  people  who 
sit  down  to  a  game  of  cards,  and  cannot  get  on 
because  one  holds  Italian,  one  French,  another 
German  cards,  and  therefore  they  cannot  under- 
stand one  another.  I  have  heard  unanimity  of 
opinions  mentioned;  but  there  exists  perhaps 
among  us  rather  a  unanimity  of  negative  opinions. 
We  are  probably  unanimous  in  believing  that  the 
Catholic  Church  has  grown  to  resemble  a  very 
ancient  temple,  originally  of  great  simplicity,  of 
great  spirituality,  which  the  sixteenth,  seven- 
teenth, and  eighteenth  centuries  have  crowded 
with  superfluities.  Perhaps  the  more  malicious 
among  you  will  say  that  only  a  dead  language 


62  The  Saint 

may  be  spoken  aloud  in  this  temple,  that  living 
languages  may  only  be  whispered  there,  and  that 
the  sun  itself  takes  on  false  colours  when  it  shines 
through  the  windows.  But  I  cannot  believe  we 
are  all  of  one  mind  as  regards  the  quantity  and 
quality  of  the  remedies  to  be  applied.  Therefore 
before  initiating  this  catholic  freemasonry,  I 
think  it  would  be  wiser  to  come  to  an  under- 
standing respecting  these  reforms.  I  will  go  even 
farther;  I  believe  that,  were  it  possible  to  es- 
tablish perfect  harmony  of  opinion  among  you, 
it  would  still  be  inexpedient  to  bind  yourselves 
together  with  visible  fetters,  as  Signor  Selva 
proposes.  My  objection  is  of  a  most  delicate 
nature.  You  doubtless  expect  to  be  able  to 
swim  in  safety,  below  the  surface,  like  wary  fishes, 
and  you  do  not  reflect  that  the  vigilant  eye  of  the 
Sovereign-Fisherman,  or  rather  Vice-Fisherman, 
may  very  easily  spy  you  out,  and  spear  you  with 
a  skilful  thrust  of  the  harpoon.  Now  I  should 
never  advise  the  finest,  most  highly  flavoured, 
most  desirable  fishes  to  bind  themselves  together. 
You  will  easily  understand  what  might  happen 
should  one  be  caught  and  landed.  Moreover,  you 
know  very  well  that  the  great  Fisherman  of 
Galilee  put  the  small  fishes  into  his  vivarium,  but 
the  Great  Fisherman  of  Rome  fries  them. " 

"Excellent!"  exclaimed  Don  Paolo  with  a 
laugh.  The  others  maintained  a  frigid  silence. 
The  Abb6  continued : 

"Furthermore,  I  do  not  believe  any  good  can 


Don  Clemente  63 

be  achieved  through  this  league.  Associations 
may  be  useful  in  helping  to  raise  salaries,  they 
may  promote  industries  and  commerce;  but 
science  and  truth,  never.  Reforms  will  surely 
be  brought  about  some  day,  because  ideas  are 
stronger  than  men,  and  are  always  pressing 
forward;  but  by  arraying  them  in  armour,  and 
marching  them  forward  in  companies,  you  expose 
them  to  a  terrible  fire,  which  will  check  their 
progress  for  a  long  time  to  come.  Science  and 
religion  progress  only  through  the  individual, 
through  the  Messiah.  Have  you  a  saint  among 
you?  Do  you  know  where  to  look  for  one? 
Then  find  him  and  let  him  march  forward.  Fiery 
language,  broad  charity,  two  or  three  little 
miracles,  and  your  Messiah  alone  will  achieve 
more  than  all  of  you  together." 

The  Abb6  was  silent,  and  Giovanni  rose  to 
speak. 

"Perhaps  the  Abbe", "  said  he,  "has  not  yet 
been  able  to  form  a  true  conception  of  the  value 
of  the  union  we  desire.  We  have  just  prayed 
together,  seeking  to  stand  united  in  the  Divine 
Presence.  This  is  sufficient  to  indicate  the  char- 
acter of  our  union.  In  consideration  of  the  ills 
afflicting  the  Church — which  in  substance  are 
the  result  of  discord  between  her  mutable  human 
element  and  her  immutable  element  of  Divine 
Truth — we  wish,  in  our  desire  that  He  may 
remove  these  discords,  to  become  one  in  the  God 
of  Truth;  and  we  wish  to  feel  ourselves  united. 


64  The  Saint 

Such  a  union  has  no  need  of  community  of  opinion 
on  certain  subjects,  although  many  of  us  hold 
many  opinions  in  common.  We  do  not  propose 
to  create  a  collective  movement,  either  public 
or  private,  in  order  to  bring  about  this  or  that 
reform.  I  am  old  enough  to  remember  the  time 
of  the  Austrian  domination.  If  the  Lombard 
and  Venetian  patriots  called  us  together  in  those 
days  to  talk  of  politics,  it  was  by  no  means  always 
in  order  to  conspire,  nor  to  determine  revolution- 
ary acts;  it  was  to  enable  us  to  communicate 
news,  to  become  acquainted,  to  keep  the  flame 
of  the  idea  alive.  This  is  what  we  wish  to  do  in 
the  religious  field.  The  Abb6  Marinier  may  rest 
assured  that  that  negative  accord  of  which  he 
spoke  will  amply  suffice.  We  must  strive  to 
widen  it,  that  it  may  embrace  the  majority  of  the 
intelligent  faithful;  that  it  may  even  reach  the 
Hierarchy.  He  will  see  that  positive  accord  will 
ripen  in  it,  mysteriously,  as  the  seed  of  life  ripens 
in  the  decaying  body  of  the  fruit.  Yes,  yes,  the 
negative  accord  is  sufficient.  The  feeling  that 
the  Church  of  Christ  is  suffering  is  sufficient  to 
unite  us  in  the  love  of  our  Mother,  and  to  move 
us  at  least  to  pray  for  her,  we  and  our  brothers 
who,  like  us,  feel  her  sufferings!  What  is  your 
answer,  Abbe"?" 

The  Abbe"  murmured  with  a  faint  smile : 

"C'est  beau,  mais  ce  n'est  pas  la  logique." 

Don  Paolo  started  up : 

"  Logic  has  nothing  to  do  with  it. " 


Don  Clemente  65 

"Ah!"  Marinier  replied,  assuming  a  contrite 
expression,  "if  you  intend  to  forego  logic) !" 

Don  Paolo,  all  on  fire,  wished  to  protest,  but 
Professor  Dane  signed  to  him  to  be  calm. 

"We  do  not  intend  to  forego  logic,"  said  he, 
"but  it  is  not  as  easy  to  measure  the  logical  value 
of  a  conclusion  in  questions  of  sentiment,  of  love 
of  faith,  as  it  is  to  measure  the  logical  value  of  a 
conclusion  in  geometrical  problems.  In  the  ques- 
tions which  interest  us  the  logical  process  is 
hidden.  Surely  my  dear  friend  Marinier,  one 
of  the  most  acute-minded  men  I  know,  when  he 
answered  my  dear  friend  Selva,  did  not  intend  to 
imply  that  when  a  person  very  dear  to  us  falls  ill, 
it  is  necessary  for  us  to  decide  what  method  of 
treatment  to  adopt  before  hastening  to  his  bed- 
side together." 

"These  are  very  fine  figures,"  said  the  Abb6 
Marinier  with  vehemence;  "but  you  are  all 
aware  that  similes  are  not  arguments ! " 

Don  Clemente,  standing  in  the  corner  between 
the  door  leading  into  the  corridor  and  the  window, 
and  Professor  Minucci,  seated  near  him,  began  to 
speak  at  the  same  moment,  but  both  stopped 
short,  each  wishing  to  allow  the  other  to  speak 
first.  Selva  proposed  that  the  monk  be  heard 
first.  All  eyes  were  fixed  on  that  noble  face,  the 
face  of  an  archangel'  Don  Clemente 's  colour 
deepened,  but  he  held  his  head  erect.  After  a 
moment  of  hesitation  he  spoke  in  his  soft,  modest 
voice. 
ft 


66  The  Saint 

"The  Abbe  Marinier  made  an  observation 
which  seemed  to  me  very  just.  He  said  that 
we  need  a  saint.  I  also  believe  this.  I  do  not 
despair  of  finding  one,  for  perhaps,  even  now,  he 
exists .  Who  knows  ? ' ' 

"Himself,"  murmured  Don  Paolo. 

"Now,"  Don  Clemen te  went  on,  "I  wish  the 
Abb6  Marinier  to  understand  this:  that  we  are, 
in  a  manner,  the  prophets  of  this  saint,  of  this 
Messiah,  preparing  the  way  for  him;  which 
simply  means  that  we  point  out  the  necessity  of 
a  renovation  of  all  that,  in  our  religion,  is  outward 
clothing,  and  not  the  body  of  truth,  even  should 
such  a  renovation  cause  suffering  to  many  con- 
sciences. Ingemiscit  et  parturit!  We  must  point 
out  this  necessity,  standing  the  while  on  abso- 
lutely Catholic  ground,  looking  for  the  new  laws 
from  the  old  authorities,  bringing  proofs  that  if 
these  garments  which  have  been  worn  so  long  and 
in  such  stormy  times,  be  not  changed,  no  decent 
person  will  come  near  us;  and  God  forbid  that 
some  among  us  should  be  driven  to  cast  them  off 
without  permission,  out  of  a  loathing  not  to  be 
borne.  I  wish  furthermore  to  say,  if  the  Abb6 
Marinier  will  permit  me,  that  we  have  very  few 
human  fears." 

A  murmur  of  hearty  assent  answered  him,  and 
Minucci  started  up,  every  nerve  vibrating.  While 
the  Abb6  Marinier  had  been  speaking,  di  Leynl 
and  Selva  had  watched  Minucci,  who  was  fuming, 
with  knitted  brows;  and  Giovanni,  knowing  well 


Don  Clemente  67 

the  violent  temper  of  this  ascetic  mystic,  had 
intended  to  give  him  time  to  control  himself  by 
requesting  Don  Clemente  to  speak  first.  He  now 
sprang  up  excitedly.  His  words  did  not  flow 
smoothly,  their  very  impetus  causing  them  to 
tremble  and  break,  and,  broken,  they  poured 
from  his  lips  in  a  torrent,  precise,  nevertheless, 
and  powerful,  with  their  vigorous  Roman  accent. 
"That  is  true!  We  have  no  human  fears.  We 
are  striving  for  things  too  great,  and  we  desire 
them  too  intensely  to  feel  human  fears !  We  wish 
to  be  united  in  the  living  Christ,  all  among  us 
who  feel  that  the  understanding  of  the  Way,  the 
Truth,  and  the  Life — is — is — is — growing,  yes, 
is  growing  in  our  hearts,  in  our  minds!  And  this 
understanding  bursts  so  many — what  shall  I 
call  them? — so  many  bonds  of  ancient  formulas 
which  press  us,  which  suffocate  us;  which  would 
suffocate  the  Church  were  the  Church  mortal! 
We  wish  to  be  united  in  the  living  Christ,  all 
among  us  who  thirst — who  thirst,  Abb6  Marinier ! 
who  thirst!  thirst! — that  our  faith,  if  it  lose  in 
extent,  may  gain  in  intensity — gain  a  hundredfold 
— for  God's  glory!  And  may  it  irradiate  from  us, 
and  may  it,  I  say,  be  as  a  purifying  fire,  purifying 
first  Catholic  thought  and  then  Catholic  action! 
We  wish  to  be  united  in  the  living  Christ,  all 
among  us  who  feel  that  He  is  preparing  a  slow 
but  tremendous  reformation,  through  the  pro- 
phets and  the  saints;  a  transformation  to  be 
accomplished  by  sacrifice,  by  sorrow,  by  the 


68  The  Saint 

severing  of  affections;  all  who  know  that  the 
prophets  are  consecrated  to  suffering,  and  that 
these  things  are  revealed  to  us  not  by  flesh  and 
blood,  but  by  God  Himself,  dwelling  in  our  souls. 
We  wish  to  be  united,  all  of  us,  from  many  lands, 
and  to  regulate  our  course  of  action.  Catholic  free- 
masonry? Yes ;  the  freemasonry  of  the  Catacombs. 
You  are  afraid,  Abbe"  ?  You  fear  that  many  heads 
will  fall  at  one  blow?  I  answer,  Where  is  the 
sword  mighty  enough  for  such  a  blow?  One  at 
a  time,  all  in  turn  may  be  struck;  to-day,  for 
instance,  Professor  Dane;  to-morrow,  Don  Fare"; 
the  next  day,  this  Padre  here.  But  should  the 
day  come  on  which  Abbe"  Marinier's  fantastic 
harpoon  should  bring  up,  all  bound  by  a  common 
cord,  famous  laymen,  priests,  monks,  bishops, 
perhaps  even  cardinals,  what  fisherman  is  there 
great  or  small,  who  would  not  be  terrified,  and 
who  would  not  cast  back  into  the  water  harpoon 
and  all  the  rest?  Moreover,  I  must  beg  you  to 
pardon  me,  Abbe"  Marinier,  if  I  ask  you  and  other 
prudent  persons  like  you,  where  is  your  faith? 
Would  you  hesitate  to  serve  Christ  from  fear  of 
Peter?  Let  us  band  together  against  the  fanatic- 
ism which  crucified  Him  and  which  is  now  poison- 
ing His  Church;  and  if  suffering  be  our  reward, 
let  us  give  thanks  to  the  Father:  ' Beati  estis 
cum  persecute  vos  fuerint  et  dixerint  omne  malum 
adversum  vos,  mentientes,  propter  me. ' 

Don  Paolo  Fare"  started  to  his  feet  and  em- 
braced  the   orator.     Di   Leynl   fixed  upon   him 


Don  Clemente  69 

eyes  aflame  with  enthusiasm.  Dane,  Selva,  Don 
Clemente,  and  the  other  monk  were  silent  and 
embarrassed,  feeling — especially  the  three  ecclesi- 
astics— that  Minucci  had  gone  too  far,  that  his 
words  concerning  the  extent  and  intensity  of 
faith,  concerning  the  fear  of  Peter,  were  not 
weighed;  that  the  whole  tone  of  his  discourse 
was  too  aggressive,  and  not  in  harmony  with 
Dane's  mystical  exhortation,  or  with  the  language 
Selva  had  used  in  delineating  the  character  of 
the  proposed  association.  The  Genevese  abbe 
had  never  for  a  moment  removed  his  small  bright 
eyes  from  Minucci's  face  while  he  was  speaking. 
He  watched  Don  Paolo's  demonstration  with  an 
expression  of  mingled  irony  and  pity ;  then  he  rose : 
"Very  well,"  he  said;  "I  do  not  know  whether 
my  friend  Dane,  in  particular,  shares  this  gentle- 
man's views.  Indeed,  I  am  inclined  to  doubt  it. 
The  speaker  mentioned  Peter.  In  truth  it  seems 
to  me  the  present  company  is  preparing  to  leave 
Peter's  bark,  in  the  hope  perhaps  of  being  able 
to  walk  upon  the  waves.  I  humbly  declare  that 
my  faith  is  not  sufficient,  and  I  should  sink  at  once. 
I  intend  to  remain  in  the  bark,  at  the  most  plying 
a  small  oar,  according  to  my  light,  for,  as  this 
gentleman  says,  I  am  very  timid.  It  is  there- 
fore necessary  for  us  to  part,  and  it  only  remains 
for  me  to  beg  you  to  pardon  my  coming.  I  feel 
the  need  of  a  stroll  to  aid  my  digestion.  Dear 
friend,"  said  he  addressing  Dane,  "we  shall 
meet  at  the  Aniene. " 


70  The  Saint 

He  approached  Selva  to  bid  him  good -night,  his 
hand  extended.  At  once  the  entire  company,  with 
the  exception  of  Don  Paolo  and  Minucci,  gathered 
round  him,  urging  him  to  remain.  He  insisted 
quietly,  checking  his  over-zealous  assailants  with  a 
cold  smile,  a  delicately  sarcastic  phrase,  or  a  grace- 
ful gesture.  Di  Leynl  turned  to  Fare\  motioning  to 
him  to  join  the  others ;  but  the  fiery  Don  Paolo  re- 
sponded only  by  an  emphatic  shrug  and  a  scowl  of 
irritation.  In  the  meantime,  a  Tuscan  voice  was 
heard  above  the  clamour  of  Marinier's  assailants. 

"  Stia  bono! "  it  said.  "  As  yet  nothing  has  been 
decided!  Wait!  I  have  not  yet  spoken!" 

The  speaker  was  Father  Salvati,  a  Scolopio,  and 
an  old  man  with  snowy  hair,  a  florid  complexion, 
and  bright  eyes. 

"  Nothing  has  as  yet  been  decided,"  he  repeated. 
"  I,  for  one,  approve  of  uniting,  but  I  have  one 
special  end  in  view,  while  the  discourses  I  have 
heard  seem  to  me  to  favour  a  very  different  end. 
Intellectual  progress  is  good,  renovation  of  the 
formulas  according  to  the  spirit  of  the  times  is  also 
good,  a  Catholic  reform  is  excellent.  I  hold  with 
Rafaello  Lambruschini,  who  was  a  great  man; 
with  the  'Pensieri  di  un  solitario';  but  it  appears 
to  me  that  Professor  Minucci  is  advocating  a  reform 
of  an  eminently  intellectual  nature,  and  that " 

Here  Dane  lifted  his  small,  white,  refined  hand. 

"  Allow  me,  Father, "  he  said.  "  My  dear  friend 
Marinier  sees  that  the  discussion  is  reopened.  I 
beg  him  to  resume  his  seat." 


Don  Clemente  7l 

The  Abb6  raised  his  eyebrows  slightly,  but 
obeyed.  The  others  also  sat  down,  quite  satisfied . 
They  had  little  faith  in  the  Abbe's  discretion,  and 
it  would  have  been  a  great  misfortune  had  he  left 
ab  irato.  Father  Salvati  resumed  his  discourse. 

He  was  opposed  to  giving  an  eminently  intel- 
lectual character  to  the  movement  of  reform,  not 
so  much  on  account  of  the  danger  from  Rome 
as  of  the  danger  of  troubling  the  simple  faith  of  a 
multitude  of  quiet  souls.  He  wished  the  Union 
to  set  itself  first  of  all  a  great  moral  task,  that  of 
bringing  back  the  faithful  to  the  practice  of  gospel 
teachings.  To  illumine  hearts  was,  in  his  eyes, 
the  first  duty  of  those  who  aspired  to  illumine 
minds.  Speaking  with  all  due  respect,  it  was 
obviously  less  important  to  transform  Catholic 
faith  in  the  Bible,  than  to  render  Catholic  faith 
in  the  word  of  Christ  efficacious .  It  must  be  shown 
that,  in  general,  the  faithful  praise  Christ  with 
their  lips,  but  that  the  heart  of  the  people  is 
far  from  Him;  it  must  further  be  shown  how 
much  egoism  enters  into  a  certain  form  of  ferv- 
ent piety  which  many  believed  to  be  a  source  of 
sanctification. 

Here  Don  Paolo  and  Minucci  protested,  grum- 
bling :  "  This  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  question. ' 

Salvati  exclaimed  that  it  had  much  to  do  with 
it,  and  he  begged  them  to  listen  to  him  patiently, 
He  continued,  alluding  to  a  general  perversion  of 
the  sense  of  Christian  duty  as  regards  the  desire 
for,  and  the  use  of,  riches;  a  perversion  it  would 


72  The  Saint 

be  very  difficult  to  eradicate,  it  having — in  the 
course  of  centuries,  and  with  the  full  sanction 
of  the  clergy — taken  deep  root  in  the  human 
conscience. 

"The  times,  gentlemen,"  the  old  monk  ex- 
claimed, "demand  a  Franciscan  movement. 
Now  I  see  no  signs  of  such  a  movement.  I  see 
ancient  religious  orders  which  no  longer  have 
power  to  influence  society.  I  see  Christian 
democracy,  both  administrative  and  political, 
which  is  not  in  the  spirit  of  St.  Francis;  which 
does  not  love  holy  poverty.  I  see  a  society  for 
the  study  of  Franciscan  thought — simply  an 
intellectual  pastime!  I  believe  that  we  should 
promote  a  Franciscan  movement;  that  is,  if  we 
desire  Catholic  reform." 

"But  how?"  Far6  demanded,  while  Minucci, 
much  vexed,  grumbled :  "  It 's  not  that  at  all!  " 

Selva  felt  that  the  souls  which  had  been  united 
by  a  first  impulse  were  drifting  apart  again.  He 
felt  that  Dane,  Minucci,  and  probably  also  Far£, 
wished,  as  did  he  himself,  to  initiate  an  intellectual 
movement,  and  that  this  Franciscan  flash  had 
come  out  of  season  and  was  out  of  place.  It  was 
all  the  more  inopportune  in  that  it  was  hot  with 
living  truth.  For  undoubtedly  there  was  much 
truth  in  Padre  Salvati's  words;  he  recognised  this, 
he,  who  had  often  debated  in  his  own  mind  if  it 
had  not  been  wiser  and  for  the  greater  good  of  the 
Church  to  promote  a  moral  agitation  rather  than 
an  intellectual  one.  But  he  himself  did  not  feel 


Don  Clemente  73 

qualified  for  this  Franciscan  apostolate,  nor  could 
he  discover  the  necessary  qualifications  in  any 
of  his  friends ;  not  even  in  the  most  zealous  of  all, 
Luigi  Minucci,  a  recluse,  an  ascetic,  shunning 
the  world  like  Selva  himself.  Salvati's  arguments 
served  to  demolish,  but  not  to  build  up.  Giovanni 
secretly  felt  the  irony  of  applying  them  either  to 
Marinier  or  to  Dane,  of  whom  it  was  well  known 
that  their  tastes  were  anything  but  Franciscan, 
that  their  palates  were  fastidious,  their  nerves 
delicate,  and  their  affections  lavished  on  parrots 
and  little  dogs.  If  anything  was  to  be  achieved, 
a  line  of  defence  must  at  once  be  adopted. 

"Dear  Padre  Salvati  must  pardon  me,"  he 
began,  "  if  I  observe  that  his  discourse — so  warm 
with  the  true  Christian  spirit — is  ill-timed.  I 
gather  that  he  is  with  us  in  desiring  a  Catholic 
reform.  To-night  only  a  proposal  is  before  us; 
the  proposal  to  form  a  sort  of  league  among  all 
those  who  cherish  the  same  desire.  Let  us  then 
decide  this  point. ' ' 

The  Scolopio  would  not  yield.  He  could  not 
understand  an  inactive  league,  and  action,  accord- 
ing to  the  ideas  of  the  intellectualists,  did  not 
suit  him.  The  Genevese  abbe"  exclaimed: 

"  Je  Vavais  bien  dit!" 

And  he  rose,  determined  this  time  to  depart. 
But  Selva  would  not  allow  this,  and  proposed 
closing  the  meeting,  intending  again  to  summon 
Professor  Dane,  Minucci,  di  Leyni,  and  Far6,  on 
the  morrow,  or  perhaps  later  on.  Salvati  was 


74  The  Saint 

intractable,  and  it  would  be  wiser  to  let  Marinier 
carry  away  the  impression  that  the  plan  was 
abandoned.  Minucci  guessed  his  motive,  and 
was  silent ;  but  the  thoughtless  Don  Paolo  did  not 
understand,  and  insisted  that  they  should  delib- 
erate and  vote  at  once.  Selva,  and  di  Leyni  also 
— out  of  respect  for  Giovanni's  wishes — persuaded 
him  to  wait.  Nevertheless  he  continued  to  fume, 
his  vexation  directed  mainly  against  the  Swiss. 
Dane  and  Don  Clemente  were  dissatisfied,  each 
for  a  reason  of  his  own;  Dane  being  at  heart 
vexed  with  Marinier,  and  sorry  he  had  brought 
him ;  while  Don  Clemente  would  have  liked  to  say 
that  Padre  Salvati's  words  were  very  beautiful 
and  holy,  and  not  out  of  season,  because  it  was 
right  that  each  should  labour  according  to  his 
vocation,  the  intellectualist  in  one  way,  the 
Franciscan  in  another.  He  who  called  them 
would  provide  for  the  co-ordination  of  their  actions. 
The  different  vocations  might  well  be  united  in  the 
League.  He  would  have  liked  to  say  this,  but  he 
had  not  been  prepared,  and  had  let  the  right 
moment  pass ;  partly  from  mental  shyness,  fearing 
he  should  not  speak  well,  partly  out  of  consideration 
for  Selva,  who  evidently  wished  to  cut  the  meeting 
short.  It  was  cut  short,  for  all  rose,  and  all,  save 
Dane  and  Giovanni,  went  out  to  the  terrace. 

The  Abb6  Marinier  proposed  going  to  Santa 
Scolastica  and  the  Sacro  Speco  on  the  morrow, 
returning  perhaps  to  Rome  by  way  of  Olevano 


Don  Clemente  75 

and  Palestrina,  that  road  being  new  to  him. 
Could  any  one  show  him  the  way  from  the  terrace? 
Don  Clemente  pointed  out  the  road.  It  was  the 
same  that  he  had  followed  as  he  came  from 
Subiaco.  It  passed  just  below  them,  crossed  the 
Anio  a  little  to  the  left,  by  the  Ponte  di  S.  Mauro, 
turned  to  the  right,  and  then  rose  towards  the 
hills  of  Affile,  over  yonder.  The  air  rose  to  them 
laden  with  the  odours  of  the  woods,  of  the  narrow 
gorge  below  the  convents,  from  whence  the  river 
issued.  The  sky  was  overcast  save  just  above 
the  Francolano.  There,  over  the  great  black 
mountain,  two  stars  trembled;  Minucci  called  di 
Leyni's  attention  to  them. 

"See  how  those  two  little  stars  flash,"  said  he. 

"  Dante  would  say  they  are  the  'little  flames '  of 
San  Benedetto  and  Santa  Scolastica,  glittering 
because  they  perceive,  in  the  shadow,  a  soul  akin 
to  theirs." 

"You  speak  of  saints?"  said  Marinier,  drawing 
near.  "A  few  minutes  ago  I  inquired  whether 
you  had  a  saint  among  you,  and  I  expressed 
the  hope  that  you  might  possess  one.  These  were 
simply  oratorical  figures,  for  I  know  well  enough 
that  you  have  no  saint.  Had  you  one,  he  would 
immediately  be  cautioned  by  the  police,  or  sent 
to  China  by  the  Church." 

"Well,"  di  Leyni  replied,  "what  if  he  were 
cautioned?" 

"Cautioned  to-day,  he  would  be  imprisoned 
to-morrow." 


76  The  Saint 

"And  what  of  that?"  the  young  man  repeated. 
"  How  about  St.  Paul,  Abb<§  Marinier?" 

"Ah!  my  friend!     St.  Paul,  St.  Paul " 

By  this  unfinished  sentence  the  Abbe  Marinier 
probably  meant  to  convey  that  St.  Paul  was  St. 
Paul.  Di  Leyni,  on  the  other  hand,  reflected  that 
Marinier  was  Marinier.  Don  Clemente  remarked 
that  not  all  saints  could  be  sent  to  China.  Why 
should  not  the  saint  of  the  future  be  a  layman? 

"  I  believe  he  will  be, "  exclaimed  Padre  Salvati. 
The  enthusiastic  Don  Fare",  on  the  contrary  L  was 
convinced  that  he  would  be  a  Sovereign  Pontiff. 
The  Abbe  laughed.  "A  simple  and  excellent 
idea, "  said  he.  "  But  I  hear  the  carriage  coming 
that  is  to  take  Dane  and  myself,  and  any  one  else 
who  wishes  to  join  us,  to  Subiaco,  so  I  will  go  and 
take  leave  of  Signor  Selva." 

He  leaned  over  the  parapet  to  gather  a  small 
branch  of  the  olive,  planted  on  the  terrace  of  the 
ground  floor. 

"  I  should  offer  him  this, "  he  said,  "  and  to  you, 
gentlemen,  as  well,"  he  smilingly  added,  with  a 
graceful  gesture,  and  then  entered  the  house. 

The  noise  of  a  two-horse  carriage  on  the  road 
below  could  in  fact  be  heard.  It  rounded  the 
cliff  upon  which  the  villa  stood,  and  stopped  at 
the  gate.  A  few  moments  later  Maria  Selva  and 
Dane,  in  his  heavy  overcoat  and  huge  black 
broad-brimmed  hat,  came  out  on  the  terrace; 
Giovanni  and  the  Abbe"  followed. 

"Who  is  coming  with  us? "   Dane  asked. 


Don  Clemente  77 

No  one  answered.  Above  the  deep  rumbling  of 
the  Anio,  voices  and  steps  could  be  heard  approach- 
ing the  villa  from  the  gate.  Minucci,  who  was 
standing  at  the  eastern  end  of  the  terrace,  looked 
down,  and  said : 

"Ladies.     Two  ladies." 

Maria  gasped.  "Two  ladies?"  she  exclaimed. 
Hastening  to  the  parapet  she  perceived  two  white 
figures  ascending  slowly;  they  were  at  the  first 
turning  of  the  steep  little  path.  It  was  impossible 
to  recognise  the  figures,  they  were  still  too  far 
away,  and  it  was  too  dark.  Giovanni  observed 
that  they  were  probably  people  coming  to  the 
first  floor  to  see  the  proprietors  of  the  house. 
Professor  Dane  smiled  mysteriously. 

"They  may  be  coming  to  the  second  floor," 
said  he. 

Maria  exclaimed: 

"You  know  something  about  this!"  and  called 
down: 

"  Noemi,  est-ce  vous?" 

Noemi's  clear  voice  answered : 

"Oui,  c'estnous!" 

Another  female  voice  was  heard  saying  aloud 
to  her: 

"What  a  child!    You  should  have  kept  quiet!" 

Maria  gave  a  little  cry  of  joy  and  disappeared, 
running  down  the  winding  stairway. 

"You  knew,  Professor  Dane?"  Selva  asked. 
Yes,  Dane  knew.  He  had  made  Signora  Dessalle's 
acquaintance  at  her  villa  in  the  Veneto — the  villa 


78  The  Saint 

containing  the  frescoes  by  Tiepolo — and  had 
recently  seen  her  in  Rome.  Her  brother,  Signor 
Carlino  Dessalle,  had  remained  in  Florence.  She 
and  Signorina  d'  Arxel,  wishing  to  surprise  the 
Selvas,  had  forbidden  him  to  tell.  The  name 
Dessalle  recalled  to  Selva's  mind  in  a  flash  what 
he  had  not  at  first  remembered — the  presence  of 
Don  Clemente,  the  suspicion  that  he  was  this 
woman's  missing  lover,  and  the  necessity  of  pre- 
venting a  meeting,  which  might  prove  terrible 
to  both.  He  was,  of  course,  unaware  of  the  con- 
versation which  had  taken  place  between  his  wife 
and  the  Padre.  In  the  meantime  they  heard 
Maria  hastening  down  the  path,  and  then  joyous 
exclamations  and  greetings.  Dane,  uneasy  lest 
he  had  stayed  too  long  on  the  terrace,  proposed 
going  downstairs.  The  ladies  had  certainly  availed 
themselves  of  the  carriage  which  was  coming  for 
him.  Don  Clemente  also  seemed  very  uneasy. 
Hiding  his  own  agitation,  Selva  hastily  took  his 
arm. 

"If  you  do  not  care  to  meet  these  ladies,"  he 
said,  "come  with  me  at  once,  and  I  will  let  you 
out  through  the  Casino,  by  the  upper  path."  The 
Padre  seemed  greatly  relieved,  and  the  two 
started  off  in  haste,  the  Benedictine  even  forget- 
ting to  say  good-night. 

"It  is  late,  too"  said  he.  "When  I  asked  the 
Father  Abbot's  permission,  I  said  I  should  be 
back  at  half -past  nine." 

They  ran   down   the   widening    stairway,  but 


Don  Clemente  79 

when  they  reached  the  little  open  space  where 
the  acacias  stood,  Jeanne  Dessalle,  Maria,  and 
Noemi  were  just  entering  it  from  the  opposite 
direction. 

It  was  not  too  dark  under  the  acacias  for  Maria 
to  recognise  her  husband  and  Don  Clemente  in  the 
two  figures  coming  from  the  house.  Being  in 
advance  of  her  sister  with  Jeanne,  she  promptly 
turned  to  the  right,  making  her  companion  turn 
with  her,  and  directed  her  steps  towards  the  little 
Casino,  an  addition  to  the  villa,  and  standing  with 
its  back  to  the  larger  house.  Selva,  on  his  part, 
seeing  his  wife's  movement,  promptly  whispered 
to  the  Padre: 

"Go  down  the  straight  path  at  once." 

But  it  was  all  to  no  purpose. 

All  to  no  purpose,  because  Noemi,  astonished  at 
seeing  her  sister  turn  to  the  right,  stopped  short, 
exclaiming : 

"Where  are  you  going?"  and  Don  Clemente, 
having  perhaps  noticed  a  lady  standing  in  his  way, 
instead  of  passing  her  and  going  down,  went  to 
summon  the  gardener,  who  was  waiting  for  him 
in  the  darkest  corner  of  the  little  opening,  where 
the  side  of  the  house  meets  the  hill.  He  called 
"Benedetto!"  and  then  turning  to  Selva  said: 
"  Would  you  like  to  show  him  the  little  field  ?"  "At 
this  hour?"  Giovanni  answered,  while  his  wife 
whispered  to  Noemi:  "Some  visitors  are  just  leav- 
ing, let  us  stay  here  at  the  Casino  until  they  have 
passed, "  shaking  her  head  at  her  so  emphatically 


80  The  Saint 

the  while,  that  Signora  Dessalle  noticed  the  action, 
and  at  once  suspected  some  mystery. 

"Why?"  she  said.  "Are  they  dangerous?" 
and  slackened  her  pace.  Noemi,  on  the  other 
hand,  having  understood  her  sister's  wish,  but  not 
her  secret  motive,  was  over-zealous  in  seconding 
her;  and  clasping  her  two  companions  round  the 
waist,  she  pushed  them  towards  the  Casino. 
Jeanne  Dessalle  was  instinctively  moved  to  rebel, 
and  turning  upon  her,  exclaimed:  "What  are  you 
doing?"  Then  she  saw  Selva  coming  towards 
them.  He  hastened  to  greet  them,  spreading  out 
his  arms  as  if  to  hide  Don  Clemente,  who,  followed 
by  the  gardener,  passed  rapidly  within  five  paces 
of  Jeanne,  and  descended  the  steep  path. 

Noemi,  who  had  also  turned  at  her  brother- 
in-law's  greeting,  ran  to  embrace  him;  Selva 
in  the  meantime,  feeling  gratified  that  Don 
Clemente  had  avoided  a  meeting.  Selva,  releasing 
himself  from  Noemi's  embrace,  extended  his  hand 
to  Jeanne,  who  did  not  see  it,  and  murmured 
absently  some  incomprehensible  words  of  greeting. 
At  that  point  Dane,  Marinier,  Far6,  di  Leyni,  and 
Padre  Salvati  issued  from  the  villa.  The  Selvas 
went  to  meet  them,  leaving  Noemi  and  Signora 
Dessalle  to  await  their  return.  The  parting 
compliments  lasted  some  time.  Dane  wished  to 
pay  his  respects  to  Signora  Dessalle,  but  Maria, 
not  seeing  her  where  she  had  left  her,  supposed 
that  she  and  Noemi  had  gone  into  the  house, 
passing  behind  them,  so  she  promised  to  be  the 


Don  Clemente  81 

bearer  of  the  professor's  greetings.  At  last,  when 
the  five  had  started  down  the  hill  accompanied  by 
Giovanni,  Maria  heard  Noemi  calling  her : 

"Maria!     Maria!" 

A  peculiar  note  in  her  sister's  voice  told  her 
something  had  happened.  She  ran  back,  and 
found  Signora  Dessalle  seated  on  a  bundle  of 
fagots,  in  the  corner  where  the  gardener  from 
Santa  Scolastica  had  stood,  not  five  minutes 
before,  and  repeating  in  a  weak  voice:  "It  is 
nothing,  nothing,  nothing!  We  will  go  in  directly, 
we  will  go  in  directly!"  Noemi,  greatly  agitated, 
explained  that  her  friend  had  suddenly  felt  faint 
while  those  gentlemen  were  talking,  and  that  she 
had  with  difficulty  been  able  to  drag  her  as  far  as 
the  bundle  of  fagots. 

"  Let  us  go  in,  let  us  go  in, "  Jeanne  repeated, 
and  rising  with  an  effort,  dragged  herself  as  far 
as  the  villa,  supported  by  her  two  friends.  She 
sat  down  on  the  steps  waiting  for  some  water,  of 
which  she  took  only  a  sip.  She  would  have  no- 
thing else,  and  was  presently  sufficiently  restored 
to  ascend  the  stairs  very,  very  slowly.  She 
apologised  at  each  halt,  and  smiled,  but  the  maid 
who,  walking  backwards,  led  the  way  with  the 
light  nearly  fainted  herself,  at  sight  of  those  dazed 
eyes,  those  white  lips,  and  that  terrible  pallor. 
They  led  her  to  the  sofa  in  the  little  salon;  and 
after  a  minute  of  silent  relaxation  with  closed 
eyes,  she  was  able  to  tell  Signora  Selva,  still  smiling, 
that  these  attacks  were  caused  by  anaemia,  and 

6 


82  The  Saint 

that  she  was  accustomed  to  them.  Noemi  and 
Maria  spoke  softly  together.  Jeanne  caught  the 
words  "to  bed"  and  with  a  look  of  gratitude, 
consented  by  a  nod.  Maria  had  prepared  the 
best  room  in  the  little  apartment  for  Jeanne  and 
Noemi — the  corner  room  opposite  Giovanni's 
study,  on  the  other  side  of  the  corridor.  While 
Jeanne  was  walking  painfully  towards  it,  lean- 
ing on  Noemi's  arm,  Selva  returned,  having  ac- 
companied his  friends  as  far  as  the  gate.  His 
wife  heard  his  step  on  the  stairs,  and  went 
down  to  detain  him.  They  spoke,  in  the  dark, 
with  hushed  voices.  Then  it  was  really  he ;  but 
how  could  she  have  recognised  him?  Indeed 
Giovanni  had  attemped  to  place  himself  between 
Jeanne  and  Don  Clemen te  at  the  critical  moment, 
and  the  Padre  had  passed  her  almost  running ;  but 
he,  Giovanni,  had  at  once  suspected  something,  for 
Signora  Dessalle  had  stood  like  a  statue,  not  giving 
him  her  hand,  and  hardly  responding  to  his  greet- 
ing. On  the  terrace  the  Padre  himself  had  shown 
uneasiness  when  he  heard  that  Signora  Dessalle 
had  arrived.  His  desire  to  avoid  her  had  been 
evident;  but  he  was  quite  master  of  his  feelings. 
Oh !  yes,  he  was  quite  master  of  his  feelings.  Maria 
was  of  the  same  opinion,  and  she  told  of  her  con- 
versation with  him  at  the  foot  of  the  stairway. 
Husband  and  wife  slowly  ascended  the  stairs, 
absorbed  in  contemplation  of  this  extraordinary 
drama,  of  the  poor  woman's  crushing  grief,  of  the 
terrible  impression  the  man  must  have  borne  away 


Don  Clemente  83 

with  him,  and — now  that  it  was  over — of  the  night 
both  must  pass,  wondering  what  would  happen 
to-morrow,  what  he  would  do,  what  she  would  do. 

"  It  is  well  to  pray  over  such  matters,  is  it  not? " 
said  Maria. 

"Yes,  dear,  it  is.  Let  us  pray  that  she  may 
learn  to  give  her  love  and  her  sorrow  to  God," 
the  husband  answered. 

Hand  in  hand  they  entered  their  bedroom, 
which  was  divided  in  two  by  a  heavy  curtain. 
They  went  to  the  window  and  looked  up  at  the 
sky,  praying  silently.  A  breath  of  the  north  wind 
soughed  like  a  lament  through  the  oak  overhanging 
the  tiny  chapel  of  Santa  Maria  della  Febbre. 

" Poor  creature!"  said  Maria.  It  seemed  to  her 
and  to  her  husband  that  their  affection  for  one 
another  was  more  tender  than  ever  to-night,  but 
nevertheless — though  neither  said  so — both  felt 
that  there  was  something  deterring  them  from 
the  kiss  of  love. 

Jeanne,  as  soon  as  Noemi  had  closed  the  door 
of  their  room  behind  them,  fell  upon  her  neck  in  a 
paroxysm  of  uncontrollable  sobbing.  Poor  Noemi 
had  concluded,  from  the  effect  produced  on  her 
friend  when  the  monk  hastened  past  her.  that  he 
was  Maironi,  and  she  was  now  overcome  with  pity. 
She  spoke  most  loving,  tender,  and  sweet  words  to 
her,  in  the  voice  of  one  soothing  a  suffering  child. 
Jeanne  did  not  answer,  but  her  sobbing  continued. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  better  so,  dear, "  Noemi  ventured 


84  The  Saint 

to  say.  "Perhaps  it  is  better  for  you  to  know, 
that  you  may  no  longer  cherish  a  false  hope; 
better  for  you  to  have  seen  him  in  that  habit." 

This  time  an  answer  came  between  the  sobs. 
"No,  no!"  Jeanne  repeated  passionately  and 
vehemently  many  times,  and  the  tone,  though 
hardly  sorrowful,  was  so  strange  that  Noemi  was 
greatly  puzzled.  She  resumed  her  soothing,  but 
more  timidly  now. 

"Yes,  dear!  yes,  dear!  because  knowing  there  is 
no  help 

Jeanne  raised  her  tear-stained  face.  "Do  you 
not  understand  ?  It  is  not  he ! "  she  said. 

Noemi  drew  away  from  her  embrace,  amazed. 

"What  do  you  mean?  Not  he — !  All  this 
scene  because  it  is  not  he?" 

Jeanne  again  fell  upon  her  neck. 

"The  monk  who  passed  me,  is  not  he,"  she  said 
sobbing;  "it  is  the  other  man!" 

4 'What  other  man?" 

"The  one  who  was  following  him,  who  went 
away  with  him!" 

Noemi  had  not  even  noticed  this  person.  With 
a  convulsive  laugh  Jeanne  nearly  suffocated  her 
in  a  close  embrace. 


CHAPTER  JII 
A  NIGHT  OF  STORMS 

ON  his  way  down  from  the  villa  to  the  gate, 
Don  Clemente  asked  himself  with  secret 
anxiety:  "Did  he  recognise  her,  or  not?  And 
if  he  did,  what  impression  did  she  make?"  On 
reaching  the  gate  he  turned  to  him  he  had  called 
Benedetto,  and  scrutinised  his  face  closely — a 
fleshless,  pallid,  intellectual  face,  in  which  he  read 
no  sign  of  agitation.  The  eyes  met  his  wonder- 
ingly,  almost  as  if  questioning:  "Why  do  you 
look  at  me  thus?"  The  monk  said  to  himself: 
"  Probably  he  did  not  recognise  her,  or  he  supposes 
me  to  be  unaware  of  her  arrival."  He  passed  his 
arm  through  his  companion's,  holding  him  close, 
and  in  silence  turned  to  the  left  towards  the  dark 
and  noisy  gorge  of  the  Anio.  When  they  had 
walked  on  a  few  paces  under  the  trees  which 
border  the  road,  he  said :  "  Do  you  not  wish  to 
question  me  about  the  meeting?"  There  was 
more  tenderness  in  his  tone  than  the  commonplace 
words  demanded.  His  companion  answered: 

"  Yes,  tell  me  about  it." 

The  voice  was  husky  and  devoid  of  interest. 
Don  Clemente  said  to  himself:     "He  certainly 

8s. 


86  The  Saint 

recognised  her!"  Then  he  talked  of  the  meeting, 
but  as  one  preoccupied  with  other  thoughts, 
without  warmth,  without  details ;  nor  did  his  com- 
panion once  interrupt  him  with  questions  or 
comments. 

"We  separated,"  he  said,  "without  having 
come  to  any  conclusion;  this  was  partly  owing  to 
the  arrival  of  some  foreigners.  So  I  was  not  able 
to  arrange  with  Signor  Giovanni  about  you.  But 
I  think  some  of  us,  at  least,  will  meet  again  to- 
morrow. And  you  yourself, "  he  added  hesitat- 
ingly, "do  you,  or  do  you  not  feel  inclined  to 
return?" 

Benedetto,  walking  steadily  on,  answered  in  the 
same  submissive  tone  as  before :  "  Are  the  foreign 
ladies  I  saw  going  to  remain?" 

Don  Clemente  pressed  his  arm  very  hard. 

"  I  do  not  know, "  he  said,  adding,  much  moved, 
and  with  another  pressure  of  the  arm:  "  If  I  had 
only  known !" 

Benedetto  opened  his  lips  to  speak,  but  checked 
himself.  They  proceeded  thus  in  silence  towards 
the  two  black  cliffs  in  the  noisy  ravine,  and  leaving 
the  main  road,  which  turns  to  cross  the  Anio 
by  the  Ponte  di  San  Mauro,  took  the  mule-path 
leading  to  the  convents,  which  winds  up  to  the 
cliff  on  the  left.  The  enormous,  slanting  mass  of 
rock  before  them  seemed  to  Don  Clemente  at  that 
moment  the  symbol  of  a  demoniacal  power  stand- 
ing in  Benedetto's  way;  so,  too,  the  gathering 
darkness  seemed  to  him  symbolically  threatening, 


A  Night  of  Storms  87 

and  threatening  also  the  ever-increasing,  ever- 
deepening  roar  of  the  lonely  river. 

Beyond  the  oratory  of  San  Mauro,  where  the 
mule-path  to  the  convents  turns  to  the  left, 
running  along  the  side  of  the  hill  towards  the 
Madonnina  dell'  Oro,  and  another  mule-path  leads 
straight  into  the  ravine,  past  the  ruins  of  the 
Baths  of  Nero,  Benedetto  disengaged  himself 
gently  from  the  monk's  arm,  and  stopped. 

"Listen,  Padre,"  said  he;  "I  must  speak  with 
you;  perhaps  at  some  length." 

"  Yes,  my  friend,  but  it  is  late ;  let  us  go  into  the 
monastery." 

Benedetto  lived  at  the  Ospizio  for  pilgrims,  the 
farmhouse,  which  is  reached  from  a  courtyard 
communicating  by  a  great  gate  with  the  pub- 
lic way  and  by  a  small  gate  with  the  corridor 
of  the  monastery,  leading  from  the  public 
way  to  the  church  and  to  the  second  of  the  three 
cloisters. 

"  I  had  rather  not  return  to  the  monastery  to- 
night, Padre,"  said  he. 

"You  had  rather  not  return?" 

On  other  occasions  during  the  three  years  he  had 
spent  in  the  free  service  of  the  monastery,  Bene- 
detto had  obtained  permission  from  Don  Clemente 
to  spend  the  night  in  prayer,  out  among  the  hills. 
Therefore  the  master  at  once  concluded  that  his 
disciple  was  passing  through  one  of  those  periods 
of  terrible  inward  struggle,  which  forced  him  to 
flee  from  his  poor  couch  and  from  the  shadows 


88  The  Saint 

of  his  room,  accomplices,  these^  of  the  evil  one, 
in  tormenting  his  imagination. 

"Listen  to  me,  Padre!"  said  Benedetto. 

His  tone  was  so  firm,  so  laden  with  the  gravity 
of  coming  words,  that  Don  Clemente  judged  it 
wiser  not  to  insist  upon  the  lateness  of  the  hour. 
Hearing  the  beat  of  hoofs  above  them,  and  knowing 
the  riders  were  coming  in  their  direction,  the  two 
stepped  aside  on  to  the  small,  grassy  plateau, 
upon  which  still  remain  humble  remnants  of 
Neronian  grandeur,  which,  with  some  arches 
hidden  in  the  thick  grove  of  hornbeams  on  the 
opposite  bank,  once  formed  part  of  the  same 
Terme,  but  are  now  divided  by  the  complaining 
of  the  Anio  far  below.  Above  those  arches  once 
dwelt  the  priest  of  Satan,  and  the  shameless 
women,  who  assailed  the  sons  of  St.  Benedict  with 
their  wiles .  The  monk  thought  of  Jeanne  Dessalle . 
There,  at  the  end  of  the  ravine,  high  up  above  the 
hills  of  Preclaro  and  of  Jenne  Vecchio,  shone  the 
two  stars  which  had  been  spoken  of  on  the  Selvas' 
terrace  as  "holy  lights." 

They  waited  for  the  riders  to  pass.  When  they 
had  done  so,  Benedetto,  in  silence,  fell  upon  his 
master's  neck.  Don  Clemente,  full  of  wonder  and 
noticing  that  he  trembled  and  was  shaken  by 
convulsive  starts,  concluded  that  the  sight  of  that 
woman  had  caused  this  emotion,  and  kept  repeat- 
ing to  him : 

"Courage,  dear  friend,  courage;  this  is  a  trial 
sent  by  the  Lord !" 


A  Night  of  Storms  89 

Benedetto  whispered  to  him : 

"  It  is  not  what  you  think." 

Having  controlled  his  feelings,  he  begged  the 
master  to  sit  down  upon  a  ruined  wall,  against 
which  he  himself — kneeling  on  the  grass — rested 
his  folded  arms. 

"Since  this  morning,"  said  he,  "I  have  been 
warned  by  certain  signs  that  the  Lord's  will 
concerning  me  is  changed;  but  I  have  not  been 
able  to  understand  in  what  way.  You  know 
what  happened  to  me  three  years  ago  in  that 
little  church  where  I  was  praying,  while  my  poor 
wife  lay  dying?" 

"You  allude  to  your  vision?" 

"  No ;  before  the  vision — having  closed  my  eyes 
—I  read  on  my  eyelids  the  words  of  Martha: 
'Magister  adest  et  vocal  teT  This  morning,  while 
you  were  saying  Mass,  I  saw  the  same  words 
within  me.  I  believed  this  to  be  an  automatic 
revulsion  of  memory.  After  the  communion  I 
had  a  moment  of  anxiety,  for  it  seemed  to  me 
Christ  was  saying  in  my  soul:  '  Dost  thou  not 
understand,  dost  thou  not  understand,  dost  thou 
not  understand  ? '  I  passed  the  day  in  a  state  of 
continual  agitation,  although  I  strove  to  tire 
myself  more  than  usual  in  the  garden.  In  the  after- 
noon I  sat  reading  a  short  time  under  the  ilex  tree, 
where  the  Fathers  congregate.  I  had  St.  Augus- 
tine's De  Operc  Monachorum.  Some  people  passed 
on  the  upper  road,  talking  in  loud  voices.  I  raised 
my  head  mechanically.  Then,  I  cannot  tell  why,  but 


90  The  Saint 

instead  of  resuming  my  reading,  I  closed  the  book 
and  fell  to  thinking.  I  thought  of  what  St. 
Augustine  says  about  manual  labour  for  monks,  I 
thought  of  the  order  of  St.  Benedict,  of  Ranee, 
and  of  how  the  Benedictine  order  might  again 
return  to  manual  labour.  Then,  in  a  moment 
of  weariness,  but  with  my  heart  still  full  of  the 
immense  grandeur  of  St.  Augustine,  I  believed 
I  heard  a  voice  from  the  upper  world  crying: 
'Magister  adest  et  vocat  tcl '  Perhaps  it  was  only 
an  hallucination,  only  because  of  St.  Augustine, 
only  some  unconscious  memory  of  the  'Tolle,  lege' ; 
I  do  not  deny  this,  but,  nevertheless,  I  trembled, 
trembled  like  a  leaf.  And  I  asked  myself  fearfully, 
Does  the  Lord  wish  me  to  become  a  monk?  You 
know,  Padre  mio — I  have  repeated  it  to  you  on 
two  or  three  occasions — that  in  one  particular,  at 
least,  this  would  correspond  with  the  end  of  my 
vision.  But  when  you  counselled  me,  as  did  also 
Don  Giuseppe  Flores,  not  to  put  faith  in  this  vision, 
I  told  you  that,  to  me,  another  reason  for  not 
putting  faith  in  it  was  that  I  do  not  feel  myself 
worthy  to  be  a  priest,  and,  furthermore,  that  the 
idea  of  joining  any  religious  order  is  strangely 
repugnant  to  me.  But  what  if  God  should  enjoin 
it  upon  me!  What  if  this  great  repugnance  be 
but  a  trial!  I  wished  to  speak  to  you  when  we 
were  on  our  way  to  the  Selvas',  but  you  were  in 
haste  to  be  there,  and  so  it  was  not  possible. 
There,  seated  on  the  bundle  of  fagots  under  the 
acacias,  I  received  the  last  blow.  I  was  weary, 


A  Night  of  Storms  91 

very  weary,  and  for  five  minutes  allowed  myself 
to  be  overcome  by  sleep.  I  dreamt  that  I  was 
walking  with  Don  Giuseppe  Flores  under  the 
arches  of  the  courtyard  at  Praglia.  I  said  to 
him  weeping:  'Here,  it  was  here!'  And  Don 
Giuseppe  answered  with  great  tenderness :  '  Yes, 
but  do  not  think  of  that,  think  rather  that  the 
Lord  calls  you.'  And  I  replied:  'But  whither, 
whither  does  He  call  me  ? '  My  anguish  was  so 
great  that  I  awoke.  I  heard  a  voice  calling  from 
the  top  of  the  house,  and  some  one  answered  in 
French  from  the  bottom  of  the  garden.  I  saw  a 
lady  leave  the  villa,  running.  I  heard  the  greetings 
she  exchanged  with  the  new-comers;  I  distin- 
guished her  voice!  At  first  I  was  not  sure  of  it, 
but  presently,  the  voices  coming  nearer,  I  could 
no  longer  doubt.  It  was  she!  For  a  second  I 
was  dazed,  but  only  for  a  second.  Then  a  great 
light  shone  out  in  my  mind." 

Benedetto  raised  his  head  and  his  clasped  hands. 
His  voice  rang  with  mystic  ardour.  "  Magister 
adest,"  said  he.  "Do  you  understand?  The 
divine  Master  was  with  me,  I  had  naught  to 
fear,  Padre  mio!  And  I  feared  naught,  neither 
her,  nor  myself.  I  saw  her  coming  up  to  the 
open  space.  My  thought  was :  'If  we  meet  alone, 
I  will  speak  to  her  as  to  a  sister,  I  will  beg  her  for- 
giveness ;  perhaps  God  will  give  me  a  word  of 
truth  for  her.  I  will  show  her  that  I  have  hopes 
for  her  soul,  and  that  I  do  not  fear  for  my 
own." 


9*  The  Saint 

Don  Clemente  could  not  refrain  from  interrupt- 
ing him. 

"No,  no,  no,  my  son!"  he  exclaimed,  greatly 
alarmed ;  and  while  he  held  the  young  man's  face 
imprisoned  between  his  hands,  he  was  casting 
about  in  his  mind  for  a  means  of  preventing  such 
a  meeting,  and  of  getting  Benedetto  away.  The 
Selvas,  the  Selvas!  they  must  be  warned! 

"  I  can  understand  why  you  speak  thus  to  me," 
Benedetto  resumed,  breathlessly;  "but  if  I  meet 
her,  must  I  not  seek  to  give  her  of  the  good  that 
is  in  me,  as  I  once  sought  to  give  her  of  the  evil? 
And  have  not  you  yourself  taught  me  that  placing 
the  saving  of  our  own  souls  above  all  things  is 
incompatible  with  the  love  of  God  above  all  things  ? 
That  when  we  love  truly  we  do  not  think  of  our- 
selves ?  That  we  strive  only  to  do  the  will  of  the 
person  beloved,  and  desire  that  others  do  the 
same?  That  thus  we  are  sure  of  salvation,  and 
that  he  who  constantly  has  in  mind  the  saving 
of  his  own  soul  risks  losing  it?" 

"That  is  very  true,  very  true,  my  dear  friend," 
answered  the  Padre,  stroking  his  hair.  "  But 
nevertheless  to-morrow  you  must  go  to  Jenne, 
and  remain  there  until  I  send  for  you.  I  will 
give  you  a  letter  to  the  parish  priest,  who  is  a 
most  worthy  man,  and  you  can  stay  with  him. 
Do  you  understand?  And  now  we  will  go  to 
the  monastery,  for  it  is  late!-" 

He  rose  and  obliged  Benedetto  to  do  the 
same. 


A  Night  of  Storms  93 

Above  their  heads  the  clock  of  Santa  Scolastica 
was  ringing  the  hour.  Was  it  ten  o'clock,  or  was 
it  eleven?  Don  Clemente  had  not  counted  the 
strokes  from  the  beginning,  and  feared  the  worst ; 
for  with  all  these  conflicting  emotions  he  had  lost 
account  of  time.  What  was  going  to  happen? 
Who  could  have  foreseen?  And  what  would  take 
place  now?  They  left  the  grassy  plateau  and 
started  up  the  steep  and  rocky  mule-path,  Don 
Clemente  in  front,  and  Benedetto  following  close 
behind ;  both  silent  and  with  stormy  souls,  while 
the  deep  voice  of  the  Anio  answered  their  thoughts. 
At  a  bend  of  the  path  they  see  the  lights  of  dis- 
tant Subiaco.  Only  a  few,  however,  so  it  is  prob- 
ably eleven  o'clock!  Presently  a  dark  corner  of 
the  inclosure  of  Santa  Scolastica  looms  before 
the  wayfarers.  Benedetto  is  thinking  by  what  a 
mysterious  way  God  has  led  him  from  the  logge 
at  Praglia,  where  Jeanne  tempted  and  conquered 
him,  to  this  toilsome  ascent  amidst  the  gloom 
towards  another  holy  spot,  with  Jeanne  near, 
and  his  heart  anchored  in  Christ. 

In  the  meantime,  the  reasons  for  practical  pru- 
dence which  pressed  upon  Don  Clemente  at  this 
time  of  distress,  and  the  reasons  for  ideal  holiness 
which  in  calmer  moments  he  had  taught  his 
beloved  disciple,  were  contending  for  supremacy 
over  Benedetto's  will,  no  longer  so  steadfast  as  in 
the  beginning;  the  first  striving  at  close  quarters, 
and  with  imperious  violence;  the  second,  from  a 
distance  and  by  means  only  of  their  stern  and 


94  The  Saint 

sad  beauty.  It  seemed  to  him  the  two  "holy 
lights"  high  above  the  dark  angle  of  the  inclo- 
sure  were  watching  him  sternly  and  sadly.  Oh! 
unholy  earth,  he  thought;  oh!  sad  earth!  And, 
perhaps,  unholy  prudence,  sad  prudence — earthly 
prudence! 

Upon  reaching  the  corner,  the  two  wayfarers 
turned  to  the  left,  leaving  the  deep  roar  of  the 
Anio  behind  them.  They  passed  the  great  gate 
of  the  monastery,  and  having  turned  the  other 
corner  of  the  inclosure,  and  traversed  the  long, 
dark  passage  which  runs  beneath  the  library, 
reached  a  low  door.  Don  Clemente  rang  the 
bell.  They  would  be  obliged  to  wait  some  time, 
for  at  nine  o'clock,  or  shortly  after,  all  the  keys 
of  the  monastery  were  taken  to  the  Abbot. 

"Then  you  will  allow  me  to  remain  outside?" 
Benedetto  asked. 

On  other  occasions  when  the  master  had  granted 
him  this  permission,  he  had  climbed  the  bare 
heights  of  Colle  Lungo  above  the  monastery,  and 
passed  the  night  in  prayer,  either  there,  or  on  the 
heights  of  Taleo,  or  on  the  rocky  hillside  which 
is  crossed  in  going  from  the  oratory  of  Santa 
Crocella  to  the  grove  of  the  Sacro  Speco.  The 
master  hesitated  a  moment;  he  had  not  thought 
of  this  wish  of  Benedetto's  again.  And  precisely 
to-day  his  disciple  had  looked  to  him  more  ema- 
ciated, more  bloodless,  than  usual;  he  feared  for 
his  health,  which  was  much  impaired  by  the 
fatigues  of  labour  in  the  fields,  by  penance,  and 


A  Night  of  Storms  95 

by  a  life  devoid  of  comfort.  This  the  master 
told  him. 

"Do  not  consider  my  body,"  the  young  man 
pleaded  humbly  and  ardently.  "My  body  is 
infinitely  remote  from  me!  Fear  rather  that  I  may 
not  do  all  that  is  possible  to  ascertain  the  Divine 
Will!" 

He  added  that  he  would  also  pray  for  light 
concerning  this  meeting,  and  that  he  had  never 
felt  God  so  near  as  when  praying  on  the  hills. 
The  master  took  his  face  between  his  hands,  and 
kissed  him  on  the  forehead. 

"Go,"  said  he. 

"  And  you  will  pray  for  me?" 

"Yes,  nunc  et  semper." 

Steps  in  the  corridor.  A  key  turns  in  the  lock. 
Benedetto  vanishes  like  a  shadow. 

Good  old  Fra  Antonio,  the  doorkeeper  of  the 
monastery,  did  not  betray  the  fact  that  he  had 
expected  to  see  Benedetto  also,  and,  with  that 
dignified  respect  in  which  were  blended  the 
humility  of  an  inferior  and  the  pride  of  an  old 
and  honest  retainer,  he  told  Don  Clemente  that 
the  Father  Abbot  was  waiting  for  him  in  his 
private  apartment.  Don  Clemente,  carrying  a 
tiny  lantern,  went  up  to  the  great  corridor, 
out  of  which  the  Abbot's  rooms  and  his  own 
opened. 

The  Abbot,  Padre  Omobono  Ravasio  of  Ber- 
gamo, was  waiting  for  him  in  a  small  salon  dimly 


96  The  Saint 

lighted  by  a  poor  little  petroleum  lamp.  The 
salottino,  in  its  severe,  ecclesiastical  simplicity,  held 
nothing  of  interest,  save  a  canvas  by  Morone — the 
fine  portrait  of  a  man;  two  small  panels  with 
angels'  heads,  in  the  style  of  Luini;  and  a  grand 
piano,  loaded  with  music.  The  Abbot,  passionately 
fond  of  pictures,  music,  and  snuff,  dedicated  to 
Mozart  and  Haydn  a  great  part  of  the  scant 
leisure  he  enjoyed  after  the  performance  of  his 
duties  as  priest  and  ruler.  He  was  intelligent, 
somewhat  eccentric,  and  possessed  of  a  certain 
amount  of  literary,  philosophical,  and  religious 
learning  which,  however,  stopped  short  with  the 
year  1850,  he  having  a  profound  contempt  for 
.ill  learning  subsequent  to  that  date.  Short  and 
grey-haired,  he  had  a  clever  face.  A  certain 
curtness  of  manner,  and  his  rough  familiarity, 
had  astonished  the  monks,  accustomed  to  the 
exquisitely  refined  manners  of  his  predecessor,  a 
Roman  of  noble  birth.  He  had  come  from  Parma, 
and  had  assumed  his  duties  only  three  days 
previously. 

Don  Clemente  knelt  before  him  and  kissed  his 
hand. 

"You  have  strange  ways  here  at  Subiaco,"  said 
the  Abbot.  "Is  ten  o'clock  the  same  as  eleven 
o'clock  to  you?" 

Don  Clemente  apologised.  He  had  been  de- 
tained by  a  duty  of  charity.  The  Abbot  invited 
him  to  be  seated. 

"  My  son, "  said  he,  "  are  you  sleepy?" 


A  Niht  of  Storms 


Don  Clemente  smiled  without  answering. 

"Well,"  the  Father  Abbot  continued,  "you 
have  wasted  an  hour  of  sleep,  and  now  I  have  my 
reasons  for  robbing  you  of  a  little  more.  I  intend 
to  speak  to  you  about  two  matters.  You  asked 
my  permission  to  visit  a  certain  Selva  and  his  wife. 
Have  you  been  there?  Yes?  Can  you  assure  me 
that  your  conscience  is  at  rest?" 

Don  Clemente  answered  unhesitatingly,  but  with 
a  movement  of  surprise: 

"Yes,  most  certainly." 

"Well,  well,  well,"  said  the  Abbot,  and  took 
a  large  pinch  of  snuff  with  evident  satisfaction. 
"  I  do  not  know  these  Selvas,  but  there  are  people 
in  Rome  who  do  know  them,  or,  at  least,  think 
they  do.  Signor  Selva  is  an  author,  is  he  not? 
Has  he  not  written  on  religion  ?  I  fancy  he  is 
a  Rosminian,  judging  by  the  people  who  are 
opposed  to  him  ;  people  unworthy  to  tie  Rosmini's 
shoe-strings;  but  let  us  discriminate!  True  Ros- 
minians  are  those  at  Domodossola,  and  not  those 
who  have  wives,  eh?  Very  well  then,  this  evening 
after  supper  I  received  a  letter  from  Rome.  They 
write  me  —  and  you  must  know  my  correspondent 
is  one  of  the  mighty  —  that  precisely  to-night  a 
conventicle  was  to  be  held  at  the  house  of  this 
false  Catholic,  Selva,  who  had  summoned  to  it 
other  malignant  insects  like  himself  ;  that  probably 
you  would  wish  to  be  present,  and  that  I  was  to 
prevent  your  going.  I  do  not  know  what  I  should 
have  done,  for  when  the  Holy  Father  speaks 


98  The  Saint 

I  obey ;  if  the  Holy  Father  does  not  speak,  I  reflect. 
But,  fortunately  for  you,  you  had  already  started. 
There  are  really  some  good  people  who  will  ferret 
out  heretics  in  Paradise  itself!  Now  you  tell  me 
that  your  conscience  is  quiet.  Am  I  not  then  to 
believe  what  the  letter  says  ?" 

Don  Clemente  replied  that  there  had  certainly 
been  neither  heretics  nor  schismatics  at  Signor 
Selva's  house.  They  had  talked  of  the  Church,  of 
her  ills,  and  of  possible  remedies,  but  in  the  same 
spirit  in  which  the  Abbot  himself  might  speak. 

"  No,  my  son,"  the  Abbot  answered.  "  It  is  not 
for  me  to  reflect  upon  the  ills  of  the  Church,  or 
upon  possible  remedies.  Or  rather,  I  may  reflect 
upon  these  matters,  but  I  must  speak  of  them 
.  only  to  God,  that  He  Himself  may  then  speak 
of  them  to  the  proper  persons.  And  do  you  do 
the  same.  Bear  this  in  mind,  my  son!  The 
ills  exist,  and  perhaps  the  remedies  also  exist,  but 
—who  knows? — these  remedies  may  be  poisons, 
and  we  must  let  the  Great  Healer  apply  them. 
We,  for  our  part,  must  pray.  If  we  did  not  be- 
lieve in  the  communion  of  saints,  what  would 
there  be  to  do  in  the  monasteries?  So  for  the 
sake  of  our  peace  of  mind,  my  son,  do  not  return 
to  that  house.  Do  not  again  ask  permission  to 
go  there." 

The  Abbot  had  ended  in  a  paternal  tone,  and 
now  laid  an  affectionate  hand  upon  his  monk's 
shoulder.  Don  Clemente  was  much  grieved  at 
the  thought  of  not  seeing  his  good  friends  again, 


A  Night  of  Storms  99 

and  especially  not  to  be  able  to  confer  with  Signer 
Giovanni  the  next  day,  to  warn  him  of  Benedetto's 
danger,  and  to  consult  with  him  concerning  a 
means  of  defence. 

"They  are  Christians  of  gold,"  he  said  sadly, 
and  in  submissive  tones. 

"I  believe  you,"  replied  the  Abbot.  "They 
are  probably  far  better  than  the  zealots  who  write 
these  letters.  You  see  I  speak  my  mind.  You 
come  from  Brescia,  eh?  Well,  I  come  from 
Bergamo.  In  either  place  they  would  be  called 
piaghe  —  festers!  They  are  indeed  festers  of 
the  Church.  I  shall  answer  in  a  fitting  tone. 
My  monks  take  no  part  in  meetings  of  heretics. 
But,  nevertheless,  you  will  not  revisit  the  Selvas." 

Don  Clemente  kissed  the  hand  of  the  fatherly 
old  man  resignedly.  -J 

"And  now  I  come  to  the  other  question,"  said 
the  Abbot.  "I  learn  that  a  young  man  whom 
you  installed  there  has  lived  'Lfor  three  years  at 
the  Ospizio  for  pilgrims,  where,  as  a  rule,  only  the 
herder  should  have  a  permanent  abode.  Oh, 
I  know,  of  course,  that  my  predecessor  sanctioned 
what  you  did!  This  young  man  is  greatly  at- 
tached to  you,  you  are  his  spiritual  director,  and 
you  encourage  him  to  study  in  the  library.  It 
is  true  that  he  also  works  in  the  kitchen-garden, 
true  that  he  displays  great  piety,  that  he  is  a 
source  of  edification  to  all,  still — as  he  does  not 
appear  to  have  any  intention  of  becoming  a  monk 
—his  presence  at  our  Ospizio,  where  he  has  had 


ioo  The  Saint 

a  place  for  three  years,  is  somewhat  irregular. 
What  can  you  tell  concerning  this  matter?  Come, 
let  us  hear." 

Don  Clemente  knew  that  some  of  his  brother 
monks — and  not  the  oldest,  but  precisely  the 
youngest  among  them — did  not  approve  of  the 
hospitality  the  late  Abbot  had  extended  to  Bene- 
detto. Neither  was  the  attachment  existing 
between  himself  and  Benedetto  entirely  to  their 
taste.  Don  Clemente  had  already  had  trouble  on 
this  account.  He  now  at  once  perceived  that 
certain  brothers  had  lost  no  time,  but  had  already 
tried  to  influence  the  new  Abbot.  His  fine  face 
flushed  hotly.  He  did  not  answer  immediately, 
wishing  first  to  quell  the  anger  burning  within  him 
by  an  act  of  mental  forgiveness.  At  last  he  assured 
the  Abbot  that  it  was  both  his  duty  and  his  wish  to 
enlighten  him. 

"This  young  man,"  he  began,  "is  a  certain 
Piero  Maironi  of  Brescia.  You  must  surely  have 
heard  of  the  family.  His  father,  Don  Franco  Mairo- 
ni, married  a  woman  without  birth  or  money.  His 
parents  were  already  dead  at  the  time,  and  he 
lived  with  his  paternal  grandmother,  Marchesa 
Maironi,  an  imperious  and  proud  woman." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  the  Abbot,  "I  knew  her! 
A  perfect  terror!  I  remember  her  well.  In 
Brescia  they  called  her  the  '  Marchesa  Haynau  'l 

>  In  allusion  to  the  terrible  Austrian,  General  Haynau, 
who,  on  account  of  his  cruelty  to  the  Italian  patriots,  was 
surnamed  the  "  Hyena  of  Brescia." — TRANSLATOR. 


A  Night  of  Storms  101 

She  had  twelve  cats  and  wore  a  great  black  wig! 
I  remember  her  well !  " 

"  I  knew  her  only  by  reputation,"  Don  Clemente 
continued,  smiling,  while  the  Abbot,  with  a  sort 
of  guttural  purr,  took  a  generous  pinch  of  snuff, 
to  rid  himself  of  the  bad  taste  this  unpleasant 
memory  had  left. 

"  Well,  the  grandmother  would  not  hear  of  this 
ill-assorted  marriage.  The  young  couple  there- 
fore were  guests  in  the  house  of  the  bride's  uncle, 
she  being  also  an  orphan.  He,  Don  Franco,  en- 
listed in  1859,  and  died  of  the  wounds  he  received. 
His  wife  died  soon  after.  The  little  boy  was 
cared  for  by  the  grandmother,  Marchesa  Maironi, 
and,  after  her  death,  by  certain  Venetian  relations 
of  hers,  of  the  name  of  Scremin.  The  grandmother 
left  him  very  wealthy.  He  married  a  daughter 
of  these  Scremins,'  who,  unfortunately,  went  mad 
soon  after  her  marriage,  I  believe.  Piero  felt 
this  affliction  keenly,  and  led  a  life  of  retirement 
until  he  had  the  misfortune  to  come  in  contact 
with  a  woman  separated  from  her  husband.  Then 
a  period  of  transgression  set  in;  he  transgressed 
morally  and  in  matters  of  faith.  At  last  (it  seems 
like  a  miracle  performed  by  the  Lord  Himself) 
the  wife  in  her  dying  moments  recovered  her 
reason,  summoned  her  husband,  spoke  with  him, 
and  then  died  the  death  of  a  saint.  This  death 
turned  Piero's  heart  towards  God;  he  left  the 
woman,  renounced  his  rights,  left  everything,  and 
fled  from  his  home  in  the  night,  telling  no  one 


102  The  Saint 

whither  he  was  going.  Having  met  me  once  at 
Brescia,  where  I  had  gone  to  visit  my  sick 
father,  and  knowing  I  was  at  Subiaco,  he  came 
here.  He  was,  moreover,  fond  of  our  Order, 
and  cherished  certain  memories  connected  with 
our  poor  Praglia.  He  told  me  his  story,  en- 
treating me  to  help  him  lead  a  life  of  expiation. 
I  supposed  he  aspired  to  enter  the  Order.  But 
he  told  me  that,  on  the  contrary,  he  did  not  feel 
himself  worthy ;  that  he  had  not  as  yet  been  able 
to  ascertain  the  Divine  Will  on  this  point;  that 
he  wished,  in  the  meantime,  to  do  penance,  to 
labour  with  his  hands,  to  earn  his  bread — only  a 
crust  of  bread.  He  told  me  other  things ;  he  spoke 
of  certain  incidents  of  a  supernatural  character 
which  had  happened  to  him.  I  at  once  told  the 
late  Father  Abbot  about  him,  and  we  decided  to 
lodge  him  in  the  Ospizio,  to  let  him  work  within 
the  inclosure,  helping  the  kitchen-gardener,  and 
to  provide  him  with  the  frugal  fare  he  craved.  In 
three  years  he  has  never  once  tasted  coffee,  wine, 
milk,  or  eggs.  He  has  touched  nothing  save  bread, 
polenta,  fruit,  herbs,  oil,  and  pure  water.  He  has 
led  the  life  of  a  saint,  all  can  assure  you  of  that. 
Still  he  believes  himself  the  greatest  sinner  on 
earth!" 

"Hm!"  the  Abott  ejaculated  thoughtfully. 
"  Hm !  I  see !  But  why  does  he  not  join  the  Order  ? 
Then,  another  thing :  I  know  he  has  passed  several 
nights  outside  the  inclosure." 

Don  Clemente  felt  his  face  once  more  aflame. 


A  Night  of  Storms  103 

"  In  prayer, "  he  said. 

"That  may  be,  but  perhaps  some  may  not 
believe  it.  You  know  what  Dante  says : 

Ad  ogni  ver  che  ha  faccia  di  menzogna 
Dee  1'uom  chiuder  la  bocca  quant'ei  puote, 
Per6  che  senza  colpa  fa  vergogna.1 

"Oh!  "  Don  Clemente  exclaimed,  blushing,  in  his 
modest  dignity,  for  those  who  were  capable  of 
harbouring  vile  suspicions. 

"Forgive  me,  my  son!"  said  the  Abbot.  "He 
is  not  accused,  the  appearances  alone  are  criticised. 
Do  not  vex  yourself.  It  is  wiser  to  pray  in  the 
house!  And  these  incidents  of  a  supernatural 
character — pray  tell  me  about  them." 

Don  Clemente  said  they  were  visions — voices 
heard  in  the  air. 

"Hm!  Hm!"  ejaculated  the  Abbot,  with  a 
complicated  play  of  wrinkled  forehead,  eyebrows, 
and  lips,  as  if  he  were  swallowing  a  mouthful  of 
vinegar. 

"You  said  his  name  was — ?     His  real  name?" 

"Piero,  but  when  he  came  here  he  wished  to 
part  with  that  name,  and  begged  me  to  give  him 
another.  I  chose  'Benedetto' — it  seemed  the 
most  appropriate." 


>  Aye  to  that  truth  which  has  the  face  of  falsehood 
A  man  should  close  his  lips  as  far  as  may  be, 
Because  without  his  fault  it  causes  shame. 

— Longfellow's  Translation  of  the  "Inferno.' 


104  The  Saint 

At  this  point  the  Abbot  expressed  a  wish  to  see 
Signor  Benedetto,  and  desired  Don  Clemente  to 
send  him  to  him  on  the  following  morning  after 
the  office  in  the  choir.  At  this  Don  Clemente 
was  somewhat  embarrassed,  and  had  to  confess 
that  he  could  not  promise  to  do  so,  because,  as 
it  happened,  the  young  man  had  gone  out  among 
the  hills  to  pass  the  night  in  prayer,  and  he  did 
not  know  precisely  at  what  hour  he  would  return. 
The  Abbot  was  greatly  annoyed,  and  mumbled 
a  series  of  reproaches  and  caustic  remarks.  Don 
Clemente  therefore  decided  to  tell  him  of  the 
meeting  with  Signora  Dessalle,  the  former  mis- 
tress ;  of  what  had  followed  on  the  way  home,  of 
his  determination  to  send  Benedetto  to  Jenne,  and 
to  oblige  him  to  remain  there  until  the  woman 
had  gone.  The  Father  Superior  kept  up  a  contin- 
uous, low  grumbling,  and  heard  him  with  knitted 
brows. 

"Here,"  he  exclaimed  at  last,  "you  are  going 
back  to  the  days  of  St.  Benedict!  to  the  wiles  of 
shameless  women!  Let  your  Benedetto  go,  let 
him  go,  let  him  go!  To  Jenne  and  farther  still! 
And  you  were  not  going  to  tell  me  this?  Did 
it  seem  a  matter  of  slight  consequence?  Was  it 
of  no  consequence  that  intrigues  of  this  sort 
should  be  carried  on  round  the  monastery?  Now 
go;  go,  I  say!" 

Don  Clemente  was  about  to  answer  that  he  had 
not  known  of  any  intrigue,  nor  if  the  woman 
had  recognised  his  disciple;  that  at  any  rate  he 


A  Night  of  Storms  105 

had  already  informed  Benedetto  of  his  intention 
of  sending  him  away;  but  he  silenced  this  use- 
less self-justification  and,  kneeling,  took  leave  of 
the  Abbot. 

Don  Clemente  took  up  again  the  tiny  lantern, 
which  he  had  left  in  the  corridor,  but  did  not  go 
to  his  cell.  Slowly,  very  slowly,  he  walked  to  the 
end  of  the  corridor ;  slowly,  very  slowly,  and  not 
without  frequent  pauses,  he  descended  by  a  littl? 
winding  stair  to  the  other  passage  leading  to  the 
chapter -hall.  The  thought  of  his  beloved  disciple 
wandering  amidst  the  darkness  on  the  mountains ; 
the  anticipation  of  the  resolutions  he  might  form, 
after  communing  with  his  God ;  the  covert  hostility 
of  his  brother  monks;  the  Abbot's  frowns  and 
doubts;  the  fear  that  he  would  oblige  Benedetto 
to  choose  between  leaving  the  convent  and  taking 
the  monastic  vows,  all  weighed  heavily  upon  his 
heart.  Benedetto's  mystic  fervour,  his  great  and 
unconscious  humility,  his  progress  in  compre- 
hending the  Faith  according  to  the  ideas  origi- 
nating with  Signor  Giovanni,  a  new  lucidity  of 
thought  which  flashed  from  him  in  conversation, 
the  growing  strength  of  their  mutual  affection,  had 
awakened  in  him  hopes  of  a  revelation  of  Divine 
Grace,  of  Divine  Truth,  of  Divine  Power  for  the 
saving  of  souls,  to  be  made,  at  no  distant  period, 
through  this  outcast  of  the  world.  They  had 
said  at  the  meeting  at  Signor  Selva's  house,  "A 
saint  is  needed."  The  first  to  affirm  this  had 
been  the  Swiss  Abbe\  Others  had  said  that  the 


io6  The  Saint 

saint  should  be  a  layman.  This  was  moreover 
his  own  opinion,  and  Benedetto's  repugnance  to 
a  monastic  life  seemed  to  him  providential.  The 
coming  of  the  woman  seemed  almost  providential 
also,  forcing  him  as  it  did  to  leave  the  convent. 
But  what  was  happening  out  on  the  hills  ?  What 
words  was  God  uttering  in  his  heart?  And  if — 

This  unexpected,  formidable  if  flashing  into 
his  mind  stopped  the  ponderer  in  his  slow  walk. 
"  Magister  adest  et  vocat  te!"  Perhaps  the  Divine 
Master  Himself  was  even  now  calling  Benedetto 
to  serve  Him  in  the  habit  of  a  monk. 

He  ceased  thinking,  terrified,  and,  having  set 
the  tiny  lantern  down,  passed  from  the  chapter- 
hall  into  the  church,  directing  his  steps  towards 
the  chapel  of  the  Sacrament.  With  that  dignity 
of  which  no  internal  storm  could  rob  his  refined 
bearing  and  the  lofty  beauty  of  his  face,  he  sank 
upon  his  knees  at  the  desk  which  stands  in  the 
centre  of  the  chapel,  between  the  four  columns, 
under  the  lamp,  raising  his  eyes  to  the  tabernacle. 

The  Teacher  of  the  Way,  of  Truth,  of  Life,  the 
Beloved  of  the  soul,  was  there,  and  sleeping,  as  He 
had  slept  on  that  stormy  night  on  the  Lake  of 
Gennesaret,  between  Gadara  and  Galilee,  in  the 
bark  which  other  wave  -  tossed  barks  followed 
through  the  roaring  darkness.  He  was  there,  pray- 
ing as  on  that  other  night,  alone,  on  the  hillside. 
He  was  there,  saying  with  His  sweet  eternal  voice : 
"  Come  unto  Me  all  ye  who  suffer,  all  ye  who  are 
heavy  laden,  come  unto  Me."  He  was  there  and 


A  Night  of  Storms  107 

speaking,  the  living  Christ:  "Believe  in  Me,  for 
I  am  with  you ;  I  am  your  strength,  and  I  am  peace. 
I  the  Humble,  son  of  the  Almighty ;  I  the  Meek,  son 
of  the  Terrible ;  I  who  prepare  hearts  for  the  king- 
dom of  justice,  for  the  future  union  of  all  with  Me 
in  My  Father. "  He,  the  Merciful,  was  there  in  the 
tabernacle,  breathing  the  ineffable  invitation: 
"  Come,  open  thy  heart;  give  thyself  up  to  Me!" 

And  Clemente  gave  himself  up,  confiding  to 
Him  what  he  had  never  confessed  even  to  himself. 
He  felt  that  everything  in  the  ancient  monastery 
was  dying,  save  Christ  in  the  tabernacle.  As  the 
germ-cell  of  ecclesiastical  organism,  the  centre 
from  which  Christian  warmth  irradiates  upon  the 
world,  the  monastery  was  becoming  ossified 
by  the  action  of  inexorable  age.  Within  its  walls 
noble  fires  of  faith  and  piety,  enclosed — like  the 
flames  of  the  candles  burning  on  the  altars — in 
traditional  forms,  were  consuming  their  human 
envelope,  their  invisible  vapours  rising  towards 
heaven,  but  sending  no  wave  of  heat  or  of  light  to 
vibrate  beyond  the  ancient  walls.  Currents  of 
living  air  no  longer  swept  through  the  monastery, 
and  the  monks  no  longer,  as  in  the  first  centuries, 
went  out  in  search  of  them,  labouring  in  the  woods 
and  in  the  fields,  co-operating  with  the  vital 
energies  of  nature  while  they  praised  God  in  song. 
His  talks  with  Giovanni  Selva  had  brought  him 
indirectly,  and  little  by  little,  to  feel  thus  regarding 
the  monastic  life  in  its  present  form,  although 
he  was  convinced  that  it  has  indestructible  roots 


io8  The  Saint 

in  the  human  soul.  But  now,  perhaps  for  the 
first  time,  he  looked  his  belief  squarely  in  the  face. 
For  a  long  time  his  wish  and  his  hope  had  been 
that  Benedetto  might  become  a  great  gospel 
labourer;  not  an  ordinary  labourer,  a  preacher,  a 
confessor,  but  an  extraordinary  labourer;  not  a 
soldier  of  the  regular  army,  hampered  by  uniform 
and  discipline,  but  a  free  champion  of  the  Holy 
Spirit.  The  monastic  laws  had  never  before  appear- 
ed to  him  in  such  fierce  antagonism  with  his  ideal 
of  a  modern  saint.  And  now,  what  if  the  Divine 
Will  concerning  Benedetto  should  reveal  itself 
contrary  to  his  desires? 

Ah!  was  he  not  already  almost  on  the  verge  of 
committing  mortal  sin  ?  Had  he  not  been  about  to 
judge  the  ways  of  God,  he  presumptuous  dust? 
Prostrate  upon  the  kneeling-stool,  he  sought  to 
merge  himself  in  the  Almighty,  praying  silently  for 
forgiveness,  for  a  revelation  to  Benedetto  of  the 
Divine  Will,  and  ready  to  worship  it,  whatever  it 
might  be,  from  this  time  forth.  As  he  rose,  with  a 
natural  ebbing  of  the  mystic  wave  from  his  heart, 
his  eyes  still  turned  towards  the  altar,  but  no  longer 
fixed  upon  the  tabernacle,  he  could  not  refrain 
from  thinking  of  Jeanne  Dessalle  and  of  what  Bene- 
detto had  said.  The  very  indifferent  picture  above 
the  altar  represented  the  martyr  Anatolia  offering, 
from  Paradise,  the  symbolical  palms  to  Audax, 
the  young  pagan  who  had  attempted  to  seduce 
her,  but  whom,  instead,  she  had  led  to  Christ. 
Jeanne  Dessalle  had  seduced  Benedetto;  of  this 


A  Night  of  Storms  109 

Don  Clemente  had  no  doubts,  notwithstanding 
Benedetto's  attempt  to  exonerate  her  and  accuse 
himself.  What  if  she  should  now  be  converted 
through  him?  Was  it  perhaps  right  that  he 
should  try?  Was  Benedetto's  impulse  really 
more  Christian  than  his  own  fears  and  the  Abbot's 
scruples?  As  he  crossed  the  church  with  bowed 
head,  Don  Clemente 's  mind  was  struggling  with 
these  questions.  Anatolia  and  Audax!  He  re- 
membered that  a  sceptical  foreigner,  upon  hearing 
the  explanation  of  the  picture  from  him,  had 
said :  "  Yes,  but  what  if  neither  of  them  had  been 
put  to  death?  And  what  if  Audax  had  been 
a  married  man?" 

These  jesting  words  had  seemed  to  him  an 
unworthy  profanation.  He  thought  of  them 
again  now,  and,  sighing,  took  up  the  little  lantern 
he  had  left  on  the  floor  in  the  chapter-hall. 

Instead  of  going  towards  his  cell  he  turned 
into  the  second  cloister  to  look  at  the  ridge  of 
the  Colle  Lungo,  where,  perhaps,  Benedetto  was 
praying.  Some  stars  were  shining  above  the 
rocky,  grey  ridge,  spotted  with  black,  and  their 
dim  light  revealed  the  square  of  the  cloister,  the 
scattered  shrubs,  the  mighty  tower  of  Abate 
Umberto,  the  arcades,  the  old  walls,  which  had 
stood  for  nine  centuries,  and  the  double  row  of 
little  stone  friars  ascending  in  procession  upon 
the  arch  of  the  great  gate  where  Don  Clemente 
stood,  lost  in  contemplation.  The  cloister  and 
the  tower  stood  out  majestic  and  strong  against 


no  The  Saint 

the  darkness.  Was  it  indeed  true  that  they  were 
dying?  In  the  starlight  the  monastery  appeared 
more  alive  than  in  the  sunlight,  aggrandised  by 
its  mystic  religious  communing  with  the  stars. 
It  was  alive,  it  was  big  with  many  different 
spiritual  currents,  all  confused  in  one  single  being, 
like  the  different  wrought  and  sculptured  stones, 
which,  united,  formed  its  body;  like  different 
thoughts  and  sentiments  in  a  human  conscience. 
The  ancient  stones,  inclosing  souls  which  love  had 
mingled  with  them,  saturated  with  holy  longings 
and  holy  sorrows,  with  groans  and  prayers,  radiated 
a  dim  something  which  penetrated  the  subcon- 
sciousness.  They  had  the  power  of  infusing  strength 
into  those  of  God's  labourers  who,  in  arid  moments, 
withdrew  from  the  world,  seeking  brief  repose 
among  them,  as  a  spring  of  water  infuses  strength 
into  the  reaper  on  the  lonely  hills.  But  in  order 
that  the  life  of  the  stones  might  continue,  a  cease- 
less living  stream  must  flow  through  them,  a 
stream  of  adoring  and  contemplating  spirits. 
Don  Clemente  felt  something  akin  to  remorse  for 
the  thoughts  he  had  harboured  in  the  church 
about  the  decrepitude  of  the  monastery ;  thoughts 
which  had  sprung  from  his  own  personal  judgment, 
pleasing  to  his  self-esteem,  and  therefore  tainted 
by  that  arrogance  of  the  spirit  which  his  beloved 
mystics  had  taught  him  to  discern  and  abhor. 
Clasping  his  hands,  he  fixed  his  gaze  on  the  wild 
ridge  of  the  hill,  picturing  to  himself  Benedetto 
praying  there,  and,  in  an  act  of  silent  renunciation, 


A  Night  of  Storms  1 1 1 

he  humbly  relinquished  his  own  desires  concerning 
the  young  man's  future.  He  praised  God  should 
He  choose  to  let  him  remain  a  layman ;  he  praised 
God  should  He  choose  to  make  him  a  monk, 
should  He  reveal  His  will,  or  should  it  remain 
hidden.  "Si  vis  me  esse  in  luce  sis  benedictus, 
si  vis  me  esse  in  tenebris  sis  iterum  benedictus.1' 
And  then  he  sought  his  cell. 


As  he  passed  the  Abbot's  door  in  the  broad 
corridor  where  the  two  dim  lamps  were  still 
burning,  he  thought  of  the  talk  he  had  had  with 
the  old  man,  of  those  maxims  of  his  concern- 
ing the  ills  affecting  the  Church,  and  the  wis- 
dom of  struggling  against  them.  He  remembered 
something  Signor  Giovanni  had  said  about  the 
words  "Fiat  voluntas  tua,"  which  the  major- 
ity of  the  faithful  understand  only  as  an  act 
of  resignation,  and  which  really  point  out  the 
duty  of  working  with  all  our  strength  for  the 
triumph  of  Divine  Law  in  the  field  of  human 
liberty.  Signor  Giovanni  had  made  his  heart  beat 
faster,  and  the  Abbot  had  made  it  beat  more 
slowly:  which  had  spoken  the  word  of  life  and  of 
truth? 

His  cell  was  the  last  one  on  the  right,  near  the 
balcony  which  overlooks  Subiaco,  the  Sabine 
Hills,  and  the  shell-shaped  tract  watered  by  the 
Anio.  Before  entering  his  cell  Don  Clemente 
stopped  to  look  at  the  distant  lights  of  Subiaco; 


ii2  The  Saint 

he  thought  of  the  little  red  villa,  nearer  but  not 
discernible;  he  thought  of  the  woman.  Intrigues, 
the  Abbot  had  said.  Did  she  still  love  Piero 
Maironi?  Had  she  discovered,  did  she  know 
that  he  had  sought  refuge  at  Santa  Scolastica? 
Had  she  recognised  him?  If  so,  what  did  she 
propose  to  do  ?  Probably  she  was  not  staying  in 
the  Selvas'  very  small  lodging,  but  was  at  some 
hotel  in  Subiaco.  Were  those  distant  lights 
fires  in  an  enemy's  camp?  He  made  the  sign 
of  the  cross,  and  entered  his  narrow  cell,  for  a 
short  rest  until  two  o'clock,  the  hour  of  assembly 
in  the  choir. 

4 

Benedetto  took  the  road  to  the  Sacro  Speco. 
Beyond  the  further  corner  of  the  monastery 
he  crossed  the  dry  bed  of  a  small  torrent,  reached 
the  very  ancient  oratory  of  Santa  Crocella  on  the 
right,  and  climbed  the  rocky  slope  which  tumbles 
its  stones  down  towards  the  rumbling  Anio  and 
faces  the  hornbeams  of  the  Francolano,  rising, 
straight  and  black,  to  the  star-crowned  cross  on 
its  summit.  Before  reaching  the  arch  which 
stands  at  the  entrance  to  the  grove  of  the  Sacro 
Speco,  he  left  the  road,  and  climbed  up  towards 
the  left,  in  search  of  the  scene  of  his  last  vigil,  high 
above  the  square  roofs  and  the  squat  tower  of 
Santa  Scolastica.  The  search  for  the  stone  where 
he  had  knelt  in  prayer  on  another  night  of  sorrow 
distracted  his  thoughts  from  the  mystic  fire  which 


A  Night  of  Storms  1 1 3 

had  enveloped  him,  and  cooled  its  ardour.  He 
soon  perceived  this  and  was  seized  with  a  heavy 
sense  of  regret,  with  impatience  to  rekindle  the 
flame,  enhanced  by  the  fear  of  not  succeeding  in 
the  attempt,  by  the  feeling  that  it  Jiad  been  his 
own  fault,  and  by  the  memory  of  other  barren 
moments.  He  was  growing  colder,  ever  colder. 
He  fell  upon  his  knees,  calling  upon  God  in  an 
outburst  of  prayer.  .Like  a  small  flame  applied 
in  vain  to  a  bundle  of  green  sticks,  this  effort  of 
his  will  gradually  weakened  without  having  moved 
the  sluggish  heart,  and  left  him  at  last  in  vague 
contemplation  of  the  even  roar  of  the  Anio.  His 
senses  returned  to  him  with  a  rush  of  terror! 
Perhaps  the  whole  night  would  pass  thus ;  perhaps 
this  barren  coldness  would  be  followed  by  burning 
temptation!  He  silenced  the  clamour  of  his 
fervid  imagination,  and  concentrated  his  thoughts 
on  his  determination  not  to  lose  courage.  He 
now  became  firmly  convinced  that  hostile  spirits 
had  seized  upon  him.  He  would  not  have  felt 
more  sure  of  this  had  he  seen  fiendish  eyes  flashing 
in  the  crevices  of  the  neighbouring  rocks.  He 
felt  conscious  of  poisonous  vapours  within  him; 
he  felt  the  absence  of  all  love,  the  absence  of  all 
sorrow;  he  felt  weariness,  a  great  weight,  the 
advance  of  a  mortal  drowsiness.  Once  more  he 
fell  into  stupid  contemplation  of  the  noise  of  the 
river,  and  fixed  his  unseeing  eyes  upon  the  dark 
woods  of  the  Francolano.  Before  his  mental 


ii4  The  Saint 

vision  passed  slowly,  automatically,  the  image 
of  the  evil  priest,  who  had  lived  there  with  his 
court  of  harlots.  He  felt  weary  from  kneeling, 
and  let  himself  sink  to  the  ground.  Again  he 
was  the  slow  automaton.  With  a  painful  effort 
he  rose  to  a  sitting  posture,  and  dropped  his  hand 
upon  the  tufts  of  soft,  sweet-smelling  grass,  push- 
ing up  between  the  stones.  He  closed  his  eyes 
in  enjoyment  of  the  sweetness  of  that  soft  touch, 
of  the  wild  odour,  of  rest,  and  he  saw  Jeanne,  pale 
under  the  drooping  brim  of  her  black,  plumed 
hat,  smiling  at  him,  her  eyes  wet  with  tears. 
His  heart  beat  fast,  fast,  ever  faster;  a  thread, 
only  a  thread  of  will-power  held  him  back  on  the 
downward  slope  leading  him  to  answer  the  invi- 
tation of  that  face.  With  wide  eyes,  his  arms 
extended,  his  hands  spread  open,  he  uttered  a 
long  groan.  Then,  suddenly  fearing  some  noc- 
turnal wayfarer  might  have  heard  him,  he  held 
his  breath,  listening.  Silence:  silence  in  all 
things  save  the  river.  His  heart  was  growing 
more  calm.  " My  God!  my  God!"  he  murmured, 
horrified  at  the  danger  he  had  been  in,  at  the 
abyss  he  had  crossed.  He  clung  with  his  eyes,  with 
his  soul,  to  the  great,  sacred,  cube-shaped  Santa 
Scolastica,  down  below,  with  its  squat,  friendly 
tower,  which  he  loved.  In  spirit  he  passed 
through  the  shadows  and  the  roofs ;  he  had  a  vision 
of  the  church,  of  the  lighted  lamp,  of  the  taber- 
nacle, of  the  Sacrament,  at  which  he  gazed  hun- 
grily. With  an  effort  he  pictured  to  himself  the 


A  Night  of  Storms  115 

cloisters,  the  cells,  the  great  crosses  near  the 
monks'  couches,  the  seraphic  face  of  his  sleeping 
master.  He  continued  in  this  effort  as  long  as 
possible,  checking  in  anguish  of  soul  frequent 
flashes  of  the  drooping  plumed  hat  and  of  the 
pale  face,  until  these  flashes  grew  fainter,  and 
were  finally  lost  in  the  unconscious  depths  of 
his  soul.  Then  he  rose  wearily  to  his  feet,  and 
slowly,  as  though  his  movements  were  controlled 
by  a  consciousness  of  great  majesty,  he  clasped 
his  hands  and  rested  his  chin  upon  them.  He 
concentrated  his  thoughts  on  the  prayer  from  the 
Imitation:  "  Domine,  dummodo  voluntas  mea  recta 
et  firma  ad  te  permaneat,  fac  de  me  quid-quid  tibi 
placuerit."  He  was  no  longer  inwardly  agitated; 
it  seemed  to  him  that  the  evil  spirits  had  fled, 
but  no  angels  had  as  yet  entered  into  him.  His 
weary  mind  rested  upon  external  things:  vague 
forms,  the  flakes  of  white  among  the  shadows, 
the  distant  hoot  of  an  owl  among  the  hornbeams, 
the  faint  scent  of  the  grass  which  still  clung  to 
his  clasped  hands  upon  the  grass,  before  Jeanne's 
sad  smile  had  appeared  to  him.  Impetuously 
he  unclasped  his  hands  and  turned  his  hungry 
eyes  towards  the  monastery.  No,  no,  God  would 
not  allow  him  to  be  conquered !  God  had  chosen 
him  to  do  His  own  work.  Then  from  the  depths  of 
his  soul,  and  independently  of  his  will,  arose 
images,  which,  in  obedience  to  his  master's  coun- 
sels, he  had  not  allowed  himself  to  evoke  since 
his  arrival  at  Santa  Scolastica;  images  of  the 


n6  The  Saint 

vision,   a  written  description  of  which  he  had 
confided  to  Don  Giuseppe  Flores. 

He  saw  himself  in  Rome  at  night,  on  his  knees 
in  Piazza.  San  Pietro,  between  the  obelisk  and 
the  front  of  the  immense  temple,  illumined  by  the 
moon.  The  square  was  deserted ;  the  noise  of  the 
Anio  seemed  to  him  the  noise  of  the  fountains. 
A  group  of  men  clad  in  red,  in  violet  and  in  black, 
issued  forth  from  the  door  of  the  temple  and 
stopped  on  the  steps.  They  fixed  their  gaze 
upon  him,  pointing  with  their  forefingers  towards 
Castel  Sant'  Angelo,  as  if  commanding  him  to 
leave  the  sacred  spot.  But  now  it  was  no  longer 
the  vision,  this  was  a  new  imagining.  He  was 
standing,  straight  and  bold,  before  the  hostile 
band.  Suddenly  behind  him  he  heard  the  rum- 
bling of  hastening  multitudes  pouring  into  the 
square  in  streams  from  all  the  adjacent  streets. 
A  human  wave  swept  him  along,  and,  proclaiming 
him  the  reformer  of  the  Church,  the  true  Vicar 
of  Christ,  set  him  upon  the  threshold  of  the 
temple.  Here  he  faced  about,  as  if  ready  to  affirm 
his  world-wide  authority.  At  that  moment  there 
flashed  across  his  mind  the  thought  of  Satan 
offering  the  kingdoms  of  the  world  to  Christ.  He 
fell  upon  the  ground,  stretching  himself  face 
downward  on  the  rock,  groaning  in  spirit:  "Jesus, 
Jesus,  I  am  not  worthy,  not  worthy  to  be  tempted 
as  Thou  wast!  "  And  he  pressed  his  tightly  closed 
lips  to  the  stone,  seeking  God  in  the  dumb  creature. 
Godl  God!  the  desire,  the  life,  the  ardent  peace 


A  Night  of  Storms  117 

of  the  soul!  A  breath  of  wind  blew  over  him, 
and  moved  the  grass  about  him. 

"  Is  it  Thou?  "  he  groaned.  "  Is  it  Thou,  is  it 
Thou?" 

The  wind  was  silent. 

Benedetto  pressed  his  clenched  hands  to  his 
cheeks,  raised  his  head,  and,  resting  his  elbows 
on  the  rock,  listened,  for  what  he  knew  not. 
Sighing  he  rose  to  a  sitting  posture.  God  will 
not  speak  to  him.  His  weary  soul  is  silent,  barren 
of  thought.  Time  creeps  slowly  on.  To  refresh 
itself,  the  weary  soul  makes  an  effort  to  recall 
the  last  part  of  the  vision,  its  soaring  flight 
through  a  stormy  nocturnal  sky  to  meet  descend- 
ing angels.  And  he  reflects  dimly :  "If  this  fate 
awaits  me,  why  should  I  repine?  Though  I  be 
tempted  I  shall  not  be  conquered,  and  though  I 
be  conquered  still  God  will  raise  me  up  again. 
Neither  is  it  necessary  to  ask  what  His  will  is 
concerning  me.  Why  not  go  down,  and  sleep?" 

Benedetto  rose,  his  head  heavy  with  leaden 
weariness.  The  sky  was  hidden  by  thick  clouds 
as  far  as  the  hills  of  Jenne,  where  the  valley  of  the 
upper  Anio  turns.  Benedetto  could  hardly  dis- 
tinguish the  black  shadow  of  the  Francolano 
opposite,  or  the  livid,  rocky  slope  at  his  feet. 
He  started  down,  but  stopped  after  a  few  steps. 
His  legs  would  not  support  him,  a  rush  of  blood 
set  his  face  aflame.  He  had  scarcely  broken  his 
fast  for  thirty  hours,  having  eaten  only  a  crust  of 
bread  at  noon.  He  felt  millions  of  pins  pricking 


u8  The  Saint 

him,  felt  the  violent  beating  of  his  heart,  felt  his 
mind  becoming  clouded.  What  was  that  tangle 
of  serpents  winding  themselves  about  his  feet, 
in  the  disguise  of  innocent  grasses?  And  what 
sinister  demon  was  that,  waiting  for  him  down 
there,  crouching  on  all  fours  on  a  rock,  disguised 
as  a  bush  and  ready  to  jump  upon  him?  Were 
not  the  demons  waiting  for  him  at  the  monastery 
also?  Did  they  not  nest  in  the  openings  of  the 
great  tower?  Was  there  not  a  black  flame  flashing 
in  those  openings?  No,  no,  not  now;  now  they 
were  staring  at  him  like  half -closed  and  mocking 
eyes.  Was  this  the  rumbling  of  the  Anio?  No, 
rather  the  roaring  of  the  triumphant  abyss.  He 
did  not  entirely  credit  all  he  saw  and  heard,  but 
he  trembled,  trembled  like  a  reed  in  the  wind, 
and  the  millions  of  pins  were  moving  over  his 
whole  body.  He  tried  to  free  his  feet  from  the 
tangle  of  serpents,  and  did  not  succeed.  From 
terror  he  passed  to  anger:  " I  must  be  able  to  do 
it!"  he  exclaimed  aloud.  From  the  gloomy 
gorge  of  Jenne,  the  dull  rumble  of  thunder 
answered  him.  He  glanced  in  that  direction. 
A  flash  of  lightning  rent  the  clouds  and  dis- 
appeared above  the  blackness  of  Monte  Preclaro. 
Benedetto  tried  again  to  free  his  feet  from  the 
serpents,  and  again  the  leonine  voice  of  the  thunder 
threatened  him. 

"What  am  I  doing?"  he  asked  himself,  trying 
to  understand.  "Why  do  I  wish  to  go  down?" 
He  no  longer  knew,  and  was  obliged  to  make  a 


A  Night  of  Storms  1 19 

mental  effort  to  recall  the  reason.  That  was  it! 
He  had  decided  to  go  down  and  sleep,  because 
one  sure  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven  has  no  need  of 
prayer.  Then,  like  the  lightning  flashing  round 
him,  came  a  flash  within  him: 

"  I  am  tempting  God!" 

The  serpents  pressed  him  tighter;  the  demon 
crept  towards  him  on  all  fours,  up  the  rocky  slope, 
all  hellishly  alive  with  fierce  spirits;  the  black 
flames  burst  forth  in  the  openings  of  the  great 
tower,  the  abyss  the  while  howling,  triumphant! 
Then  the  sovereign  roar  of  the  thunder  rumbled 
through  the  clouds:  "Thou  shalt  not  tempt 
the  Lord  thy  God!"  Benedetto  raised  his  face 
and  his  clasped  hands  towards  heaven,  worship- 
ping as  best  he  might  with  the  last  glimmer  of 
clouded  consciousness.  He  swayed,  spread  wide 
his  arms,  clutching  the  air.  Slowly  he  bent 
backwards,  fell  prostrate  upon  his  back  on  the 
hillside,  and  then  lay  motionless. 

His  body,  motionless  midst  the  rush  of  the 
thunderstorm,  lay  like  an  uprooted  trunk,  among 
the  straining  gorse  and  the  waving  grass.  His 
soul  must  have  been  sealed  by  the  central  contact 
with  the  Being  without  time  and  without  space, 
for  when  Benedetto  first  regained  consciousness 
he  had  lost  all  sense  of  place  and  of  time.  His 
limbs  felt  strangely  light ;  he  experienced  a  pleas- 
ant sensation  of  physical  exhaustion,  and  his 
heart  was  flooded  with  infinite  sweetness.  First; 


120  The  Saint 

upon  his  face,  then  upon  his  hands,  he  felt  innu- 
merable slight  touches,  as  though  loving,  animate 
atoms  of  the  air  were  gently  tickling  him;  he 
heard  a  faint  murmur  of  timid  voices  round  what 
seemed  to  be  his  bed.  He  sat  up  and  looked 
about  him,  dazed,  but  at  peace;  forgetful  of  the 
where  and  the  when,  but  perfectly  at  peace  and 
filled  with  content  by  the  quiet,  inner  spring 
of  vague  love,  which  flowed  through  all  his  being, 
and  overflowed  upon  surrounding  things,  upon 
the  sweet  little  lives  about  him,  that  thus  came 
to  love  him  in  turn.  Smiling  at  his  own  bewilder- 
ment, he  recognised  the  where  and  the  how.  The 
when  he  could  not  recognise,  nor  did  he  desire 
to  do  so.  Neither  did  he  question  whether  hours 
or  minutes  had  passed  since  his  fall,  so  content 
was  he  in  the  blessed  present.  The  storm  had 
rolled  down  towards  Rome.  In  the  murmur  of 
the  rain  falling  softly,  without  wind ;  in  the  great 
voice  of  the  Anio,  in  the  restored  majesty  of  the 
mountains,  in  the  wild  odour  of  the  damp  rocky 
slope,  in  his  own  heart,  Benedetto  felt  something 
of  the  Divine  mingling  with  the  creature,  a  hidden 
essence  of  Paradise.  He  felt  that  he  was  min- 
gling with  the  souls  of  things,  as  a  small  voice 
mingles  with  an  immense  choir,  felt  that  he  was 
one  with  the  sweet-smelling  hill,  one  with  the 
blessed  air.  And  thus  submerged  in  a  sea  of 
heavenly  sweetness,  his  hands  resting  in  his  lap, 
his  eyes  half  closed,  soothed  by  the  soft,  soft  rain, 


A  Night  of  Storms  121 

he  gave  himself  up  to  enjoyment,  not  however, 
without  a  vague  wish  that  those  who  do  not  believe, 
those  who  do  not  love,  might  also  know  such 
sweetness.  As  his  ecstasy  diminished  his  mind 
once  more  recalled  the  reason  of  his  presence  on 
the  lonely  hill,  in  the  darkness  of  night;  recalled 
the  uncertainties  of  the  morrow,  and  Jeanne,  and 
his  exile  from  the  monastery.  But  now  his  soul 
anchored  in  God,  was  indifferent  to  uncertainties 
and  doubts,  as  the  motionless  Francolano  was 
indifferent  to  the  quiverings  of  its  cloak  of  leaves. 
Uncertainties,  doubts,  memories  of  the  mystic 
vision,  departed  from  him  in  his  profound  self- 
abandonment  to  the  Divine  Will,  which  might 
deal  with  him  as  it  would.  The  image  of  Jeanne, 
which  he  seemed  to  contemplate  from  the  summit 
of  an  inaccessible  tower,  awakened  only  a  desire 
to  labour  fraternally  for  her  good.  Calm  reason 
having  fully  resumed  its  sway,  he  perceived  that 
the  rain  had  drenched  his  clothes  and  that  it  still 
continued  to  fall  softly,  softly.  What  should  he 
do?  He  could  not  go  back  to  the  Ospizio  for 
pilgrims,  for  the  herder  would  be  asleep,  and  he 
would  not  wake  him  to  get  in,  nor  would  this, 
indeed,  be  easy  to  accomplish.  He  determined 
to  seek  shelter  under  the  evergreen  oaks  of  the 
Sacro  Speco.  He  rose  wearily,  and  was  seized 
with  dizziness.  He  waited  a  short  time,  and 
then  crept  down  very,  very  slowly,  towards  the 
path  which  leads  from  Santa  Scolastica  to  the 


122  The  Saint 

arch  at  the  entrance  to  tne  grove.  Exhausted 
he  let  himself  sink  upon  the  ground  there,  in  the 
dark  shadow  of  the  great  evergreen  oaks,  bent 
and  spreading  upon  the  hillside,  their  arms  flung 
wide;  there  between  the  dim  light  on  the  slope 
beyond  the  arch  to  the  right,  and  the  dim  light 
on  the  slope  in  front  of  the  grove  to  the  left. 

He  longed  for  a  little  food,  but  dared  not  ask 
it  of  God,  for  it  would  be  like  asking  for  a  miracle. 
He  was  prepared  to  wait  for  the  dawn.  The  air 
was  warm,  the  ground  hardly  damp;  a  few  great 
drops  fell,  here  and  there,  from  the  leaves  of  the 
evergreen  oaks.  Benedetto  sank  into  a  sleep 
so  light  that  it  hardly  made  him  unconscious 
of  his  sensations,  which  it  transformed  into  a 
dream.  He  fancied  he  was  in  a  safe  refuge  of 
prayer  and  peace,  in  the  shadow  of  holy  arms 
extended  above  his  head;  and  it  seemed  to  him 
he  must  leave  this  refuge  for  reasons  of  which  the 
necessity  was  evident  to  him,  although  he  was 
unaware  of  their  nature.  He  could  go  by  a  door 
opening  on  to  the  road  which  leads  down  to  the 
world,  or  he  could  go  by  the  opposite  door,  taking 
a  path  which  rose  towards  sacred  solitudes.  He 
hesitated,  undecided.  The  falling  of  a  great 
drop  near  him  made  him  open  his  eyes.  After 
the  first  moment  of  numbness  he  recognised  the 
arch  on  the  right,  where  the  road  begins  which 
leads  down  to  Santa  Scolastica,  to  Subiaco,  to 
Rome ;  and  on  the  left  the  path  which  rises  toward 
the  Sacro  Speco.  He  noticed  with  astonishment 


A  Night  of  Storms  123 

that  on  both  sides,  beyond  the  evergreen  oaks, 
the  bare  rocks  looked  much  whiter  than  before; 
that  many  little  streaks  of  light  were  glinting 
through  the  foliage  above  his  head.  Dawn? 
Was  it  dawn?  Benedetto  had  thought  it  was 
little  past  midnight.  The  hour  struck  at  Santa 
Scolastica — one,  two,  three,  four.  It  was  indeed 
morning,  and  it  would  be  lighter  still — for  it  no 
longer  rained — were  the  sky  not  one  heavy  cloud 
from  the  hills  of  Subiaco  to  the  hills  of  Jenne. 
A  step  in  the  distance;  some  one  coming  up 
towards  the  arch. 

It  was  the  herder  of  Santa  Scolastica  who,  for 
special  reasons,  was  carrying  the  milk  to  the 
Sacro  Speco  at  that  unusually  early  hour.  Ben- 
edetto greeted  him.  The  man  started  violently 
at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  and  nearly  let  the  jug 
of  milk  fall. 

"Oh,  Benede!"  he  exclaimed,  recognising 
Benedetto,  "are  you  here?" 

Benedetto  begged  for  a  drink  of  milk,  for  the 
love  of  God! 

"You  can  explain  to  the  monks,"  said  he. 
"You  can  say  I  was  exhausted,  and  asked  for  a 
little  milk,  for  the  love  of  God." 

"Yes,  yes!  It  is  all  right!  Take  it!  Drink!" 
the  man  exclaimed,  for  he  believed  Benedetto 
to  be  a  saint.  "And  have  you  passed  the  night 
out  here?  You  were  out  in  all  that  rain?  Good 
Lord!  how  wet  you  are!  You  are  soaked  through 
like  a  sponge!" 


1 24  The  Saint 

Benedetto  drank. 

"I  thank  God,"  he  said,  "for  your  kindness 
and  for  the  blessing  of  the  milk." 

He  embraced  the  man,  and  years  afterwards  the 
herder,  Nazzareno  Mercuri,  used  to  tell  that  while 
Benedetto  held  him  in  his  arms,  he,  Nazzareno 
did  not  seem  to  be  himself;  that  his  blood  first 
turned  to  ice  and  then  to  fire ;  that  his  heart  beat 
hard,  very  hard,  as  it  did  the  first  time  he  received 
Christ  in  the  Sacrament;  that  a  terrible  headache 
which  had  tormented  him  for  two  days  suddenly 
disappeared;  that  then  he  had  realised  he  was 
in  the  arms  of  a  saint,  a  worker  of  miracles ;  and 
that  he  had  fallen  on  his  knees  at  his  feet!  In 
reality  he  did  not  fall  on  his  knees,  but  stood  as 
one  petrified,  and  Benedetto  had  to  say  twice  to 
him:  "Now  go,  Nazzareno;  go,  my  dear  son." 
Having  despatched  him  thus  lovingly  on  his  way 
to  the  Sacro  Speco,  he  himself  started  towards 
Santa  Scholastica. 

In  the  light  of  day  the  rocky  slope  held  no 
spirits  either  good  or  evil.  The  mountains,  the 
clouds,  even  the  dark  walls  of  the  monastery,  and 
the  tower  itself  looked  heavy  with  sleep  in  the 
pale  dawn.  Benedetto  entered  the  Ospizio,  and 
stretching  himself  on  his  poor  couch,  without  re- 
moving his  wet  garments,  he  crossed  his  arms  on 
his  breast,  and  sank  into  a  deep  sleep. 


CHAPTER  IV 

FACE  TO  FACE 
I. 

THE  rumbling  of  the  thunder  roused  .Noemi 
shortly  after  two  o'  clock ;  she  had  fallen 
asleep  only  a  short  time  before.  Her  room  was 
next  to  Jeanne's,  and  the  door  between  them  had 
been  left  open.  Jeanne  immediately  called  out 
to  her.  They  had  talked  until  two  o  'clock, 
when  Noemi,  quite  exhausted,  and  after  many 
vain  efforts,  had  finally  succeeded  in  persuading 
her  indefatigable  friend  to  leave  her  in  peace. 
Now  she  pretended  not  to  hear.  Jeanne  called 
again. 

"Noemi!    The  thunder-storm!   I  am  so  fright- 
ened!" 

"You    are    not    a    bit    frightened!"     Noemi 
answered  irritably.    "Be  quiet!      Go  to  sleep!" 

"I   am  frightened!     I   am  coming  into  your 
room." 

"I  forbid  it!" 

"Then  you  must  come  in  here!" 

Noemi 's    "Will   you    be    quiet?"    sounded   so 
resolute  that  the  other  was  silent. 

Only  for  a  moment,  however ;  then  the  tearful, 
125 


126  The  Saint 

childish  voice,  that  Noemi  knew  so  well,  began 
again: 

"Have  you  not  slept  long  enough?  Can  you 
not  talk  now  ?  You  must  have  slept  three  hours !" 

Noemi  struck  a  match  and  looked  at  her  watch, 
holding  which  she  had  previously  begged  for 
silence. 

"Twenty- two  minutes!"  she  announced.  "Be 
quiet!" 

Jeanne  was  still  for  a  moment,  then  she  uttered 
those  little  hm! — hm! — hms! — which  are  always 
the  prelude  to  tears  in  a  spoilt  child.  And  the 
complaining  voice  went  on: 

"You  do  not  love  me  at  all!  Hm!  Hm!  For 
pity's  sake  let  us  talk  a  little!  Hm!  Hm!  Hm!" 

In  her  mother  tongue,  Noemi  sighed : 

"Oh!  mon  Dieu!" 

With  another  sigh  she  resigned  herself  to  the 
inevitable: 

"Well,  go  ahead!  .  But  what  can  you  say  to 
me  that  you  have  not  already  said  in  the  last  four 
hours?" 

The  thunder  roared,  but  Jeanne  no  longer 
noticed  it. 

"To-morrow  morning  we  will  go  to  the  mon- 
astery, "  said  she. 

"  Why  yes,  of  course!" 

"Only  we  two  alone?" 

"Yes,  certainly,  that  is  already  settled." 

The  tearful  voice  was  silent  a  moment,  and  then 
went  on: 


Face  to  Face  127 

"  You  have  not  yet  promised  not  to  tell  anything 
here  in  the  house." 

"I  've  promised  at  least  ten  times!" 

"  You  know  what  you  are  to  say — do  you  not — 
if  you  are  questioned  about  my  fainting  last 
night?" 

"I  know." 

"You  must  say  that  the  Padre  was  not  he; 
that  I  was  disappointed,  and  that  was  why  I 
fainted." 

"Gracious,  Jeanne!  This  is  the  twentieth  time 
you  have  said  that!" 

"How  cruel  you  are,  Noemi!  How  little  you 
care  for  me!" 

Silence. 

Jeanne's  voice  began  again: 

"Tell  me  what  you  think.  Do  you  really 
believe  he  has  forgotten  me?" 

"  I  will  not  answer  that  again!" 

"Oh!  please  answer!  Just  one  word,  then  I 
will  let  you  go  to  sleep!" 

Noemi  reflected  a  moment  and  then  answered 
drily,  hoping  to  silence  Jeanne : 

"Well,  I  think  he  has.  I  do  not  believe  he 
ever  loved  you." 

"You  say  that  because  I  myself  have  said  so 
to  you!"  Jeanne  retorted  violently,  no  longer  in 
a  tearful  voice. 

"You  are  no  judge  of  that!" 

"Bon  fa!"  Noemi  grumbled.  "C'est  elle  qui 
me  Va  dit,  el  je  ne  dois  pas  le  savoir!" 


128  The  Saint 

Silence  again. 

The  tearful  voice  once  more: 

"Noemi!" 

No  answer. 

"Noemi,  listen!" 

Still  no  answer.  Jeanne  began  to  cry,  and 
Noemi  yielded. 

"  For  heaven's  sake!  what  is  it  now?  " 

"  Piero  cannot  know  that  my  husband  is  dead." 

"  Well,  and  what  of  that? " 

"  Then  he  cannot  know  that  I  am  free." 

"  Well?  How  stupid  you  are!  You  make  me 
angry!" 

Silence.  Jeanne  knew  the  nature  of  her  anger 
very  well.  Her  friend's  convictions  were  too 
much  like  her  own,  and  she  longed  to  have  her 
painful  presentiment  contradicted,  longed  for  a 
word  of  hope. 

She  laughed  a  low,  forced  laugh : 

"  Noemi,  now  you  are  pretending  to  be  offended 
on  purpose  not  to  have  to  talk." 

Silence. 

Jeanne  began  again,  very  sweetly: 

"  Listen.  Don  't  you  believe  he  suffers  temp- 
tations?" 

Silence. 

Jeanne,  this  time  ignoring  the  fact  that  Ncemi 
did  not  answer,  exclaimed: 

"  It  "Mould  be  nice  if  he  had  just  now  stopped 
suffering  from  temptations'." 

Her  sarcasm  is  so  comic,  that— although  she 


Face  to  Face  129 

is  greatly  shocked — Noemi  cannot  help  laughing; 
and  Jeanne  laughs  with  her.  In  spite  of  her 
mirth,  Noemi  reproaches  Jeanne  for  saying  such 
intensely  foolish  things  without  stopping  to 
reflect.  For  Noemi  knows  her  friend,  and  knows 
that  the  Jeanne  of  this  hour  is  not  the  true  Jeanne, 
self-possessed  and  mistress  of  herself;  or  rather 
perhaps  it  is  the  true  Jeanne,  but  certainly  not 
she  who  will  stand  before  Piero  Maironi,  if,  by 
any  chance,  they  meet. 

The  thunder  has  ceased,  and  Jeanne  would 
like  to  see  what  the  weather  is',  but  she  dreads  to 
leave  her  bed,  fearing  to  feel  ill  again,  fearing 
to  discover  she  will  not  be  able  to  go  up  to  the 
monastery  a  few  hours  hence.  She  also  fears 
the  opposition  of  her  hosts,  should  the  weather 
prove  too  unpleasant.  She  is  therefore  anxious 
to  see  how  the  sky  looks.  Get  up  must  Noemi, 
the  slave  whose  acts  of  rebellion  very  seldom 
ended  in  victory.  Noemi  rises,  opens  the  window, 
and  examines  the  darkness,  her  hand  extended. 
Tiny,  frequent  drops  tickle  her  palm.  The  dark- 
ness grows  less  impenetrable  as  her  eyes  become 
accustomed  to  it.  She  distinguishes,  down  below, 
Santa  Maria  della  Febbre,  grey,  against  a  black 
background.  The  mass  of  heavy  mist  grows 
lighter,  and  the  arms  of  the  oak  towering  on  the 
right  show  black  against  it.  The  tiny,  frequent 
drops  continue  to  tickle  her  outstretched  hand, 
which  she  finally  withdraws.  Jeanne  questions. 

"Well?" 

9 


130  The  Saint 

"It  is  raining." 

She  sighs  "  What  a  bother,"  as  if  it  were  going 
to  rain  for  ever.  And  the  tiny  drops  acquire  a 
louder  voice,  fill  the  room  with  soft  murmurs, 
and  then  are  hushed  once  more.  Jeanne  does  not 
understand  the  soft  murmurs,  does  not  understand 
that  the  man  of  whom  her  heart  is  full  is  lying 
unconscious,  on  the  lonely,  rocky,  hillside,  down 
which  the  rain  washes. 

Late  on  the  following  morning  Signora  Selva, 
somewhat  anxious  because  neither  of  her  guests 
had  as  yet  appeared,  entered  her  sister's  room 
quietly.  Noemi  was  nearly  dressed,  and  signed 
to  her  to  be  silent.  Jeanne  had  fallen  asleep 
at  last.  The  two  sisters  left  the  room  together 
and  went  to  the  study  where  Giovanni  was  waiting 
for  them.  Well?  Was  Don  Clemente  really 
the  man?  The  husband  and  wife  were  anxious 
to  know  in  order  to  regulate  their  conduct  accord- 
ingly. Giovanni  no  longer  doubted,  but  his 
wife  was  not  sure  even  now.  Noemi!  Noemi 
must  know!  Giovanni  closed  the  door,  while 
Maria,  interpreting  her  sister's  silence  as  con- 
firmation, insisted:  "Then  it  is  really  he,  really 
he?" 

Noemi  was  silent.  She  would  perhaps  have 
betrayed  her  friend's  secret  in  order  to  conspire 
with  the  Selvas  for  Jeanne's  happiness,  had  she 
not  been  deterred  by  a  doubt  of  their  agreeing 
with  her,  and  by  a  sense  of  wavering  in  her  own 


Face  to  Face  131 

mind.  Probably,  as  Catholics,  the  Selvas  would 
not  wish  this  man  who  had  fled  from  the 
world  to  return  to  it.  She,  a  Protestant,  could 
not  feel  thus;  at  least  she  should  not  feel 
thus.  She  should  rather  believe  that  God  is  bet- 
ter served  out  in  the  world  and  in  the  married 
state.  She  did  feel  this,  but  she  could  not  hide 
from  herself  that  should  Signer  Maironi  marry 
Jeanne  now,  she  could  feel  little  respect  for  him. 
At  any  rate  it  would  be  wiser  to  hide  the  strange 
truth. 

"  Well,  what  is  it  you  think?"  said  she.  "  That 
the  priest  who  was  here  last  night,  and  who  passed 
in  front  of  us,  after  all  that  by-play  of  yours,  was 
really  the  former  lover  ?  Is  he  your  Don  Clemente  ? 
Very  well  then,  he  is  not  the  man." 

"Ah!  Really  not?"  Giovanni  exclaimed,  be- 
tween surprise  and  incredulity.  His  wife  tri- 
umphed. 

"There!"   said  she. 

But  Giovanni  would  not  yield.  He  asked 
Noemi  if  she  were  quite  sure  of  what  she  said, 
and  how  she  explained  Signora  Dessalle's  fainting? 
Noemi  answered  that  there  was  nothing  to  explain. 
Jeanne  suffered  from  anaemia,  and  was  subject 
to  attacks  of  terrible  weakness.  Giovanni  was 
silent,  but  he  was  not  convinced.  If  this  were 
really  so,  how  could  Noemi  assert  so  positively 
that  Don  Clemente  was  not  the  man?  In  his 
sister-in-law's  words,  in  her  manner,  in  her  face, 


132  The  Saint 

Giovanni  perceived  something  that  was  not 
natural.  Maria  asked  how  they  had  passed  the 
night.  How  had  Signora  Dessalle  rested?  She 
had  been  uneasy  ?  In  what  way  uneasy  ? 

"She  was  uneasy!  What  more  can  1  say?" 
Noemi  exclaimed  rather  irritably,  and  went  to 
the  open  window  as  if  to  ascertain  the  intention 
of  the  clouds.  Giovanni  took  a  step  towards 
her,  determined  to  conquer  her  reticence.  She 
had  a  presentiment  of  this,  and,  as  an  expedient, 
she  asked  what  his  predictions  concerning  the 
weather  were. 

The  sky  was  completely  overcast;  low,  heavy 
clouds  rolled  down  from  the  crests  of  Monte  Calvo 
upon  the  Cappuccini  and  the  Rocca.  The  TJT 
was  warm,  the  roar  of  the  Anio  loud.  Far  below, 
the  road  to  Subiaco,  like  a  winding  ribbon  and 
almost  black  with  mud,  was  visible  through  the 
foliage  of  the  olives.  Giovanni  answered : 

"Rain." 

Noemi  at  once  asked  how  far  it  was  from  the 
little  villa  to  the  convents.  It  took  twenty 
minutes  to  go  to  Santa  Scolastica.  But  why  did 
she  ask?  Upon  hearing  that  Jeanne  intended 
going  there  with  Noemi  that  very  morning, 
Maria  protested.  In  such  weather?  You  are 
obliged  to  walk  the  last  part  of  the  way.  Could 
they  not  postpone  their  visit  until  to-morrow 
or  the  next  day? 

"When  did  she  tell  you?"  Giovanni  asked 
almost  sharply. 


Face  to  Face  133 

Noemi  hesitated  before  answering: 

"  In  the  night.  " 

As  soon  as  she  had  spoken  the  words  she  realised 
that  they  would  arouse  suspicion,  especially  after 
that  moment  of  hesitation;  she  now  awaited  an 
attack,  undecided  whether  to  resist  or  surrender. 

"Noemi!"  Giovanni  exclaimed  severely. 

She  looked  at  him,  her  face  slightly  flushed; 
she  was  silent,  not  even  saying,  "  Well,  what  is  it? " 

"  Do  not  deny  it, "  her  brother-in-law  went  on. 

"This  woman  recognised  Don  Clemente.  Do 
not  deny  it,  rather  say  so  at  once;  it  is  a  duty 
which  your  conscience  must  surely  urge  upon  you ! 
They  must  on  no  account  be  allowed  to  meet!" 

"  What  I  said  is  true,  "  Noemi  answered,  having 
now  decided  on  a  line  of  action.  In  her  tone, 
free  from  all  trace  of  irritation  and  almost  sub- 
missive, there  lurked  the  implied  confession  that 
she  had  not  told  the  whole  truth. 

"She  did  not  recognise  him?  But  surely  you 
know  something  more? " 

"Yes,  I  do  know  something  more,"  Noemi 
replied;  "but  I  must  not  tell  you  what  I  know. 
I  can  only  ask  you  to  warn  Don  Clemente  that 
Signora  Dessalle  and  I  propose  visiting  the  con- 
vents this  morning.  I  will  say  nothing  more,  and 
now  I  am  going  to  see  if  Jeanne  is  awake.  " 

She  left  the  room  hastily.  The  Selvas  looked 
at  each  other.  What  was  the  meaning  of  her 
wish  to  have  Don  Clemente  warned?  Maria 
read  in  her  husband's  thoughts  something  which 


134  The  Saint 

displeased  her,  something  she  did  not  wish  him 
to  utter. 

"You    had   better    write    the   letter   to    Don 
Clemente, "  she  said. 

But  Giovanni,  before  writing,  wished  to  free  his 
mind.  There  seemed  to  be  only  one  explanation 
possible:  Don  Clemente  was  really  the  man. 
Noemi  had  promised  Signora  Dessalle  not  to  say 
so,  but  she  nevertheless  wished  to  prevent  a 
meeting.  Maria  exclaimed  with  some  heat:  "  Oh! 
Noemi  does  not  tell  lies!"  and  then,  crimsoning 
and  smiling,  she  embraced  her  husband  as  if 
fearful  of  having  offended  him.  For,  once,  she 
had  offended  him  by  some  thoughtless  words 
concerning  the  lack  of  truthfulness  in  Italians, 
and  now  perhaps  her  exclamation  might  have 
the  effect  of  recalling  the  shadow  of  that 
cloud.  He  was  indeed  annoyed,  more  by  the 
embrace  than  by  the  protest,  and,  remembering, 
he  also  crimsoned  and  maintained  that  in  Noemi 's 
place  Maria  herself  would  have  denied  everything. 
Maria  was  silent,  and  left  the  study,  importunate 
tears  welling  up  in  her  eyes.  At  first  Giovanni 
was  glad  he  had  repulsed  this  offensive  tenderness, 
and  he  began  the  note  to  Don  Clemente.  Before 
he  had  finished  it,  however,  his  irritation  had 
turned  to  remorse,  and  he  rose  and  went  in  search 
of  his  wife.  She  was  in  the  corridor,  speaking 
in  low  tones  to  Noemi.  She  turned  her  face 
towards  him  at  once;  understanding,  she  smiled, 
her  eyes  still  wet,  and  signed  to  him  to  come 


Face  to  Face  135 

nearer,  and  to  speak  softly.  What  was  the  matter? 
The  matter  was  that  Jeanne  wished  to  start  for 
Santa  Scolastica  at  once.  Noemi  explained  that 
she  had  only  just  awakened,  and  that  at  once 
meant  an  hour  and  a  half  at  least.  But  they  must 
send  to  Subiaco  for  a  carriage,  for  Jeanne  was 
in  no  condition  to  walk  more  than  was  absolutely 
necessary — more  than  the  last  part  of  the  way. 
A  ring  of  the  bell  called  Noemi  away.  Jeanne 
was  waiting  for  her  with  impatience. 

"What  a  chatterbox  of  a  maid!"  she  said, 
half  jestingly  and  half  irritably.  "What  have 
you  been  telling  your  sister?" 

Noemi  threatened  to  leave  her.  Jeanne  clasped 
her  hands  in  supplication,  and  asked,  looking 
her  straight  in  the  eyes,  as  though  to  read  her  soul : 

"How  shall  I  arrange  my  hair?  How  shall  I 
dress?" 

Noemi  answered  thoughtlessly: 

"Why,  just  as  you  please." 

Jeanne  stamped  her  foot  angrily.  Noemi  under- 
stood. 

"As  a  peasant  girl, "  said  she. 

"You  silly  creature! " 

Noemi  laughed. 

Jeanne  sighed  out  the  usual  reproach : 

"You  do  not  love  me!    You  do  not  love  me! " 

Then  Noemi  became  serious,  and  asked  her 
if  she  really  wished  to  entice  him  back  again— 
her  precious  Maironi? 

"I  want  to  be  beautiful!"     Jeanne  exclaimed. 


The  Saint 


"There!" 

She  really  was  beautiful  at  that  moment,  in 
her  dressing-gown  of  a  warm  yellow  tint,  with  her 
streaming  dark  hair  down  to  a  hand's-breadth 
below  her  waist.  She  looked  far  lovelier  and 
younger  than  the  night  before.  Her  eyes  shone 
with  that  look  of  intense  animation  which,  in 
former  days,  they  had  been  wont  to  assume  when 
Maironi  entered  the  room,  or  even  when  she  heard 
his  step  outside. 

"  I  wish  I  had  the  toilette  I  wore  at  Praglia," 
she  said.  "  I  should  like  to  appear  before  him  in 
my  green  fur-lined  cloak,  now,  in  May!  I  should 
like  him  to  see  at  a  glance  how  unchanged  I  am, 
and  how  much  I  wish  to  remain  unchanged! 
Oh!  my  God,  my  God!" 

With  a  sudden  impulse  she  threw  her  arms  about 
Noemi's  neck,  and  pressed  her  face  against  her 
shoulder,  stifling  a  sob  and  murmuring  words 
Noemi  could  not  distinguish. 

"No,  no,  no!"  she  cried  at  last.  "I  am  mad! 
I  am  wicked!  Let  us  go  away,  let  us  go  away!  " 
She  raised  her  tearful  face.  "  Let  us  go  to  Rome  !  " 
said  she. 

"Yes,  yes!"  Noemi  answered  in  great  agitation, 
"we  will  go  to  Rome.  We  will  leave  at  once. 
Let  me  go  and  ask  when  the  next  train  starts." 

Jeanne  immediately  seized  upon  her  and  held 
her  back.  No,  no,  it  was  madness.  What 
would  her  sister  say?  What  would  her  brother- 
in-law  think?  It  was  madness,  an  impos- 


Face  to  Face  137 

sibility!  And  besides,  besides,  besides She 

hid  her  face,  whispering  behind  her  hands 
that  she  would  be  satisfied  if  she  could  only  see 
him  for  one  moment;  but  she  could  not — no, 
no — she  could  not  leave  without  having  seen 
him. 

"Enough!"  said  she,  uncovering  her  face,  after 
a  long  pause.  "Let  us  dress!  I  will  wear 
whatever  you  please;  sackcloth,  if  you  wish  it, 
or  even  haircloth!" 

Her  face  had  resumed  the  aggrieved  smile  she 
had  worn  before. 

"Who  can  tell?"  she  said.  "Perhaps  it 
will  do  me  good  to  see  him  in  the  dress  of  a 
peasant!" 

"  It  would  cure  me  at  once!"  Noemi  muttered; 
then  she  blushed,  for  she  felt  she  had  spoken  a 
great  untruth. 

When  Signora  Selva  knocked  at  the  door  to  say 
the  carriage  was  waiting,  Jeanne,  with  mock 
humility,  begged  Noemi  to  allow  her  to  wear  a 
certain  large  Rembrandt  hat  of  which  she  was 
very  fond.  The  black,  feather-laden  brim,  droop- 
ing over  her  pale  face,  above  the  sombre  light  in 
her  eyes,  above  the  tall  figure  wrapped  in  a  daik 
cloak,  seemed  to  partake  of  her  feelings,  gloomy, 
passionate,  and  haughty.  When  she  said  good 
morning  to  Maria  Selva  she  felt  the  admiration 
she  aroused.  She  saw  it  in  Giovanni's  eyes  also, 
but  it  was  admiration  of  a  different  sort,  and  not 


138  The  Saint 

of  a  sympathetic  nature.  As  soon  as  she  and 
Noemi  had  left  him  and  were  on  their  way  down 
to  the  gate,  where  the  carriage  was  waiting, 
Jeanne  asked  her  if  she  really  had  not  told  her 
brother-in-law  anything  at  all?  Upon  being 
reassured  she  murmured : 

"I  thought  you  must  have." 

When  they  had  proceeded  a  few  paces  she 
pressed  her  friend's  arm  very  hard  and  exclaimed, 
much  pleased,  and  as  though  she  had  made  an 
unexpected  discovery : 

"At  any  rate,  I  am  still  beautiful!" 

Noemi  did  not  heed  her.  She  was  wondering 
if  the  name  Dessalle  had  conveyed  anything  to 
the  monk.  Had  Maironi  ever  mentioned  it  to 
him?  If  he  had  told  him  of  this  love,  had  he  not 
perhaps  concealed  the  woman's  name?  At  the 
bottom  of  her  heart  there  lurked  a  lively  curiosity 
to  see  this  man  who  had  awakened  such  a  strong 
passion  in  Jeanne  and  had  disappeared  from  the 
world  in  such  a  strange  manner.  But  she  would 
have  liked  to  see  him  alone.  It  was  terrifying 
to  thLik  of  these  two  meeting  without  any 
preparation.  If  she  could  only  speak  to  the  monk 
first,  to  this  Don  Clemente,  to  make  sure  he  knew, 
and  to  enlighten  him  if  he  did  not  know;  if  she 
could  only  find  out  from  him  something  of  that 
other  man,  the  state  of  his  mind,  his  intentions. 
"But  enough!"  she  said  to  herself  as  she  entered 
the  carriage.  "Providence  must  provide!  And 
may  Providence  help  this  poor  creature!" 


Face  to  Face  139 

When  they  left  the  carriage  where  the  mule- 
path  begins,  Jeanne  proposed  timidly,  and  as  one 
who  expects  a  refusal  and  knows  it  is  justified, 
that  she  should  go  up  to  the  convents  by  herself, 
a  small  boy,  who  had  run  after  the  carriage  all  the 
way  from  Subiaco,  acting  as  guide.  The  refusal 
came  indeed,  and  was  most  emphatic.  Such  a 
thing  was  out  of  the  question!  What  was  she 
thinking  of?  Then  Jeanne  begged  at  least  to  be 
left  alone  with  him  should  she  find  him.  Noemi 
did  not  know  what  to  answer. 

"What  if  I  went  up  before  you?"  said  she. 
"  If  I  asked  for  Padre  Clemente,  and  tried  to  find 
out  from  him  what  he  is,  what  he  is  doing,  and 
what  he  thinks;  this,  your " 

Jeanne  interrupted  her,  horrified. 

"The  Padre?  Speak  to  the  Padre?"  she 
exclaimed,  pressing  both  hands  to  Noemi 's  face, 
as  though  to  silence  her  words.  "Woe  to  you 
if  you  speak  to  the  Padre!" 

They  started  slowly  up  the  rocky  mule-path, 
Jeanne  often  stopping,  seized  with  trembling, 
and  vibrating  like  a  taut  cord  in  the  wind.  In 
silence  she  stretched  out  her  hands  that  Noemi 
might  feel  how  cold  they  were,  and  smiled.  In 
the  sea  of  clouds  rushing  towards  the  hills  the 
pale  eye  of  the  sun  appeared ;  the  sun,  too,  was 
curious. 


Don  Clemente  said  Mass  at  about  seven  o  'clock, 


140  The  Saint 

spoke  with  the  Abbot,  and  then  went  to  the  Os- 
pizio  where  pilgrims  were  sheltered.  He  found 
Benedetto  asleep,  his  arms  crossed  upon  his  breast, 
his  lips  slightly  parted,  his  face  reflecting  an  in- 
ward vision  of  beatitude.  Don  Clemente  stroked 
his  hair,  calling  him  softly.  The  young  man  started, 
raised  his  head  with  a  dazed  look,  and,  spring- 
ing out  of  bed,  grasped  and  kissed  Don  Clemente's 
hand.  The  monk  withdrew  it  with  an  impulse  of 
humility,  quickly  checked  by  the  purity  of  his  soul, 
by  his  consciousness  of  the  dignity  of  his  office. 

"Well?"  he  said.  "Did  the  Lord  speak  to 
you?" 

"I  am  subject  to  His  will,"  Benedetto  replied, 
"  as  a  leaf  in  the  wind,  a  leaf  which  knows  nought." 

The  monk  took  his  head  between  his  hands, 
drawing  him  towards  him,  and  pressed  his  lips 
upon  his  hair,  letting  them  rest  there  while  their 
souls  silently  communed. 

"  You  must  go  to  the  Abbot, "  he  said.  "  After- 
wards you  can  come  to  me." 

Benedetto  fixed  his  gaze  upon  him,  questioning 
him  without  words:  "Why  this  visit?"  Don 
Clemente's  eyes  were  veiled  in  silence,  and  the 
disciple  humbled  himself  in  a  mute  but  visible 
impulse  of  obedience. 

"At  once?"  he  inquired. 

"At  once." 

"  May  I  first  go  and  wash  in  the  torrent?" 

The  master  smiled: 

*  3o,  wash  in  the  torrent." 


Face  to  Face  141 

Bathing  in  the  water  which  sometimes,  after 
heavy  rains,  sings  in  the  Pucceia  Valley  to  the 
east  of  the  monastery,  and  cuts  in  rivulets  across 
the  road  to  the  Sacro  Speco,  below  Santa  Crocella, 
was  the  only  physical  pleasure  in  which  Benedetto 
allowed  himself  to  indulge.  1 1  was  still  sprinkling ; 
mist  smoked  slowly  in  the  deep  valley;  the 
trembling  shallow  waters  complained  to  Benedetto 
as  they  hastened  across  the  road,  but  rested  quiet 
and  content  in  the  hollow  of  his  hands ;  and  through 
his  forehead,  his  eyes,  his  cheeks,  his  neck,  they 
infused  deep  into  his  heart  a  sense  of  the  sweet 
chastity  of  their  soul,  a  sense  of  Divine  bounty. 
Benedetto  poured  the  water  over  his  head  copi- 
ously, and  the  spirit  of  the  water  entered  into  his 
thoughts.  He  felt  that  the  Father  was  sending 
him  forth  upon  new  paths,  but  that  He  would  carry 
him  in  His  mighty  hand.  He  reverently  blessed 
the  creature  through  which  so  much  light  of  grace 
had  come  to  him,  the  most  pure  water!  Then 
he  bent  his  steps  towards  the  Ospizio.  Don 
Clemente,  who  was  waiting  for  him  in  the  court- 
yard, started  when  he  caught  sight  of  him,  so 
transfigured  did  he  appear.  Under  his  thick, 
damp  hair  his  eyes  shone  with  quiet  celestial 
joy,  and  the  fleshless  face,  the  colour  of  ivory, 
wore  that  expression  of  occult  spirituality  which 
flowed  from  the  brushes  of  the  Quattrocento. 
HOY/  could  that  face  harmonise  with  peasant's 
attire?  In  his  heart  Don  Clemente  congratulated 
himself  upon  a  thought  which  he  had  conceived 


The  Saint 

during  the  night,  and  had  already  communicaved 
to  the  Abbot,  namely,  to  give  Benedetto  an  old 
lay-brother's  habit.  Before  consenting  or  refusing 
the  Abbot  wished  to  see  Benedetto  and  speak 
with  him. 

The  Abbot,  while  waiting  for  Benedetto,  was 
strumming  with  his  knuckles  a  piece  of  his  own 
composition,  accompanying  the  sound  with  horri- 
ble contortions  of  lips,  nostrils  and  eyebrows. 
Upon  hearing  a  gentle  knock  at  the  door,  he 
neither  answered  nor  stopped  playing.  Having 
finished  the  piece  he  began  it  again,  and  played 
it  a  second  time  from  beginning  to  end.  Then 
he  stopped  and  listened.  Another  knock  was 
heard,  more  gentle  than  the  first.  The  Abbot 
exclaimed. 

" Seccatore!    Some  bore!" 

After  some  angry  chords  he  began  playing 
chromatic  scales.  From  chromatic  scales  he 
passed  to  broken  chords.  Then  he  listened  again 
for  three  or  four  minutes.  Hearing  nothing 
more  he  went  to  open  the  door,  and  perceived 
Benedetto,  who  fell  upon  his  knees. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  demanded  roughly. 

"My  name  is  Piero  Maironi, "  Benedetto  an- 
swered; "but  here  at  the  monastery  they  call  me 
Benedetto. " 

And  he  made  a  movement  to  take  the  Abbot's 
hand  and  kiss  it. 

"One    moment,"    said    the    Abbot,  frowning, 


Face  to  Face  143 

withdrawing  and  raising  his  hand.  "What  are 
you  doing  here?" 

"  I  work  in  the  kitchen  garden,"  Benedetto 
replied. 

"Fool!"  exclaimed  the  Abbot.  "I  ask  what 
you  are  doing  here  outside  my  door?" 

"  I  was  coming  to  see  you,  Padre." 

"Who  told  you  to  come  to  me?" 

"Don  Clemente." 

The  Abbot  was  silent,  and  studied  the  kneeling 
man  for  some  time;  then  he  grumbled  something 
incomprehensible,  and  offered  him  his  hand  to 
kiss. 

"Rise!"  said  he,  still  sharply.  "Come  in. 
Close  the  door." 

When  Benedetto  had  entered  the  Abbot  ap- 
peared to  forget  him.  He  put  on  his  glasses  and 
began  turning  over  the  leaves  of  a  book  and 
glancing  through  the  papers  on  his  desk.  In  an 
attitude  of  soldierly  respect,  holding  himself 
very  erect,  Benedetto  stood,  waiting  for  him  to 
speak. 

"Maironi  of  Brescia?"  said  the  Abbot,  in  the 
same  unfriendly  tone  as  before,  and  without 
turning  round. 

Having  received  an  answer  he  continued  to 
turn  the  pages  and  read.  Finally  he  removed 
his  glasses  and  turned  round. 

"What  did  you  come  here  to  Santa  Scolastica 
for?"  said  he. 

"I  was  a  great  sinner,"  Benedetto  answered, 


144  The  Saint 

"God  called  me  to  withdraw  from  the  world, 
and  I  withdrew  from  it." 

The  Abbot  was  silent  for  a  moment,  his  gaze 
fixed  upon  the  young  man,  and  then  he  said 
with  ironical  gentleness: 

"No,  my  friend!" 

He  took  out  his  snuff-box,  shook  it,  repeating 
"No,  no,  no,"  rapidly  and  almost  under  his 
breath ;  he  examined  the  snuff,  dipped  his  fingers 
into  it,  raised  his  eyes  once  more  to  Benedetto's 
face,  and,  emphasising  each  word,  said: 

"That  is  not  true!" 

Grasping  the  pinch  with  his  thumb,  his  fore- 
finger, and  his  middle  finger,  he  raised  his  hand 
swiftly,  as  though  about  to  throw  the  snuff  into 
the  air,  and,  with  his  arm  suspended,  continued  to 
speak. 

"It  is  probably  true  enough  that  you  were  a 
great  sinner,  but  it  is  not  true  that  you  withdrew 
from  the  world.  You  are  neither  in  it  nor  out 
of  it." 

He  took  his  pinch  of  snuff  with  a  loud  noise, 
and  went  on: 

"Neither  in  it  nor  out  of  it! " 

Benedetto  looked  at  him  without  answering. 
In  those  eyes  there  was  something  so  serious 
and  so  sweet,  that  the  Abbot  lowered  his  to  the 
open  snuff-box,  once  more  dipping  his  fingers 
into  it  and  toying  with  the  snuff. 

"  I  do  not  understand  you, "  he  said. 

"You  are  of  the  world,  and  still  you  are  not  of 


Face  to  Face  145 

it.  You  are  in  the  monastery,  and  still  you  are  not 
in  the  monastery.  I  fear  your  head  serves  you  no 
better  than  your  great-grandfather's,  your  grand- 
father's, and  your  father's  served  them.  Fine 
heads,  those!" 

Benedetto's  ivory  face  flushed  slightly. 

"They  are  souls  with  God,"  he  said,  "better 
than  we  are,  and  your  words  offend  against  one 
of  God's  commandments." 

"Silence!"  the  Abbot  exclaimed.  "You  say 
you  have  renounced  the  world,  and  you  are  full 
of  worldly  pride.  If  you  really  wished  to  renounce 
the  world,  you  should  have  tried  to  become  a 
novice!  Why  did  you  not  attempt  this?  You 
wished  to  come  here  in  villeggiatura,  for  an  outing, 
that  is  the  truth  of  the  matter.  Or  perhaps  you 
were  under  certain  obligations  at  home,  there 
were  certain  troublesome  matters — you  know 
what  I  mean!  Nee  nontinentur  in  nobis.  And 
you  wished  to  rid  yourself  of  these  troubles,  only 
to  get  yourself  into  fresh  ones.  You  tell  stories 
to  that  simple-minded  Don  Clemente;  you  usurp 
the  place  of  a  poor  pilgrim ;  and  perhaps — eh  ? — 
you  hoped  with  prayers  and  sacraments  to  throw 
dust  in  the  eyes  of  the  monks,  which  is  an  easy 
matter  enough,  and  even  in  the  eyes  of  the  Al- 
mighty Himself,  which  is  a  far  more  difficult 
matter.  You  do  not  deny  this!" 

The  slight  flush  had  vanished  from  the  ivory 
face;  the  lips  which  at  one  moment  had  parted, 
ready  to  utter  words  of  calm  severity,  were  now 


146  The  Saint 

motionless;  the  penetrating  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
the  Abbot  with  the  same  sweecly  grave  look  as 
before.  And  this  calm  silence  seemed  to  exasper- 
ate the  Abbot. 

"Speak  then!"  said  he.  "Confess!  Have  you 
not  also  boasted  of  special  gifts,  of  visions,  of 
miracles  even,  for  all  I  know?  You  have  been  a 
great  sinner?  Prove  that  you  are  one  no  longer! 
Exonerate  yourself  if  you  can.  Say  how  you 
have  lived ;  explain  this  pretension  of  yours  that 
God  has  called  you;  justify  yourself  for  coming 
here  to  eat  the  monk's  bread  for  nothing; 
for  you  did  not  wish  to  become  a  monk,  and 
as  to  work,  you  have  done  little  enough  of 
that." 

"Padre,"  Benedetto  replied  (and  the  severe 
tone  of  his  voice,  the  austere  dignity  of  his  face, 
accorded  ill  with  the  humble  gentleness  of  his 
words),  "this  is  good  for  me,  a  sinner,  who  for 
three  years  have  lived  the  life  of  the  spirit,  in  ease 
and  delights,  in  peace,  in  the  affection  of  saintly 
men,  in  an  atmosphere  full  of  God  Himself.  Your 
words  are  good,  and  sweet  unto  my  soul,  they  are 
a  blessing  from  the  Lord;  their  sting  has  made 
me  feel  how  much  pride  there  is  in  me  still,  of 
which  I  was  ignorant,  for  it  was  a  joy  to  me  to 
despise  myself.  But  as  a  servant  of  holy  Truth, 
I  say  to  you  that  harshness  is  not  good,  even 
when  used  towards  one  who  deceives,  because 
gentleness  might  perhaps  bring  him  to  repent  of 
his  deceit;  and  I  say  also,  Padre,  that  in  your 


Face  to  Face  147 

words  there  is  not  the  spirit  of  our  true  and 
only  Father,  to  whom  be  all  glory!" 

At  the  words  "  to  whom  be  all  glory  "  Benedetto 
fell  upon  his  knees,  his  face  glowing  with  intense 
fervour. 

"Is  it  for  you,  miserable  sinner,  to  play  the 
part  of  teacher?"  the  Abbot  exclaimed. 

"You  are  right,  you  are  right!"  Benedetto 
replied  impulsively,  with  laboured  breath  and 
clasped  hands.  "Now  I  will  confess  my  sin  to 
you.  I  desired  illicit  love;  I  was  happy  in  the 
passion  of  a  woman  who  was  not  free,  as  I  myself 
was  not  free,  and  I  accepted  this  passion.  I 
abandoned  all  religious  practices  and  heeded 
not  the  scandal  I  gave.  This  woman  did  not 
believe  in  God,  and  I  dishonoured  God  in  her 
company,  my  faith  being  dead,  and  showing 
myself  sensual,  selfish,  weak,  and  false.  God 
called  me  back  with  the  voices  of  my  dead,  the 
voices  of  my  father  and  mother.  Then  I  left 
the  woman  who  loved  me,  but  I  was  without 
strength  of  purpose,  wavering  in  my  heart  between 
good  and  evil.  Soon  I  returned  to  her,  all  aflame 
with  sin,  knowing  I  should  lose  myself,  even 
determined  to  lose  myself.  There  was  no  longer 
an  atom  of  grace  in  my  soul  when  a  dying  hand, 
dear  and  saintly,  seized  me  and  saved  me." 

"  Look  me  in  the  eyes, "  said  the  Abbot,  without 
allowing  him  to  rise.  "Have  you  ever  let  any 
one  know  you  were  here?" 

"I  have  never  let  any  one  know." 


148  The  Saint 

~» 
v 

The  Abbot  answered  drily: 

"  I  do  not  believe  you !" 

Benedetto  did  not  flinch. 

"You  know  why  I  do  not  believe  you?"  the 
Abbot  continued. 

"I  can  imagine  why,"  Benedetto  answered, 
dropping  his  eyes.  "  Peccatum  meum  contra  me 
est  semper." 

"Rise!"  the  Abbot  commanded,  still  inflexible. 
"  I  expel  you  from  the  monastery.  You  will 
now  go  and  take  leave  of  Don  Clemente,  in  his 
cell,  and  then  you  will  depart,  never  to  return. 
Do  you  understand  ? ' ' 

Benedetto  bowed  his  head  in  assent,  and  was 
about  to  bend  his  knee  to  pay  homage  in  the  usual 
way,  when  the  Abbot  stopped  him  with  a  gesture. 

"Wait,  "said  he. 

Putting  on  his  glasses  he  took  a  sheet  of  paper, 
upon  which  he  traced  some  words,  standing  the 
while. 

"What  will  you  do,  when  you  have  left?" 
he  asked  still  writing. 

Benedetto  answered  softly: 

"Does  the  sleeping  child  that  his  father  lifts 
in  his  arms  know  what  his  father  will  do  with 
him?" 

The  Abbot  made  no  answer;  his  writing  fin- 
ished, he  placed  the  paper  in  an  envelope,  closed 
it,  and  without  turning  his  head,  held  it  out  to 
Benedetto,  who  was  standing  behind  him. 

"Take  this  to  Don  Clemente, "  he  said. 


Face  to  Face  149 

Benedetto  begged  permission  to  kiss  his  hand. 

"No,  no,  go  away,  go  away! " 

The  Abbot's  voice  trembled  with  anger.  Bene- 
detto obeyed.  Hardly  had  he  reached  the  cor- 
ridor when  he  heard  the  angry  man  thundering 
on  the  piano. 

Before  entering  Don  Clemente's  little  cell, 
Benedetto  stopped  before  the  great  window  at  the 
end  of  the  corridor.  Here,  a  few  hours  earlier, 
the  master  himself  had  lingered,  contemplating  the 
lights  of  Subiaco,  and  thinking  of  the  enemy, 
the  creature  of  beauty,  of  genius,  of  natural  kind- 
liness, who  was  perhaps  come  to  strive  with  him 
for  possession  of  his  spiritual  son,  to  strive  with 
God  Himself.  Now  the  spiritual  son  felt  a 
mysterious  certainty  that  the  woman  he  had 
loved  so  ill,  during  the  time  of  his  blind  and 
ardent  leaning  towards  inferior  things,  had 
discovered  his  presence  in  the  monastery,  and 
would  come  in  search  of  him.  Seeking  deep  in 
his  own  heart  for  the  Spirit  which  dwelt  there, 
he  gained  from  it  a  pious  sense  of  the  Divine, 
which  was  surely  in  her  also,  hidden  even  from 
herself;  and  he  felt  a  mystic  hope  that,  by  some 
dark  way,  she  also  would  one  day  reach  the  sea 
of  eternal  truth  and  love,  which  awaits  so  many 
poor  wandering  souls. 

Don  Clemente  had  heard  him  coming,  and  had 
set  his  door  ajar.  Benedetto  entered,  and  offered 
him  the  Abbot's  letter. 


150  The  Saint 

"I  must  leave  the  monastery,"  he  said,  very 
calmly.  "At  once,  and  for  ever." 

Don  Clemente  did  not  answer,  but  opened  the 
letter.  When  he  had  read  it  he  observed, 
smiling,  that  Benedetto's  departure  for  Jenne 
had  been  decided  upon  the  night  before.  True, 
but  the  Abbot  had  said  never  to  return.  Don 
Clemente's  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  but  he  still 
smiled. 

"You  are  glad?"  said  Benedetto,  almost 
plaintively. 

Oh,  glad!  How  could  the  master  explain 
what  he  felt?  His  beloved  disciple  was  leaving 
him,  leaving  him  for  ever,  after  three  years  of 
spiritual  union;  but  then  the  hidden  Will  had 
made  itself  manifest;  God  was  taking  him  from 
the  monastery,  setting  his  feet  in  other  ways. 
Glad!  Yes;  afflicted  and  glad,  but  he  could 
not  communicate  the  cause  of  his  gladness  to 
Benedetto.  The  Divine  Word  would  have  no 
value  for  Benedetto  did  he  not  interpret  it  for 
himself. 

"Not  glad,"  he  said,  "but  at  peace.  We 
understand  each  other,  do  we  not?  And  now 
prepare  yourself  to  listen  to  my  last  words,  which 
I  hope  you  will  cherish." 

Don  Clemente's  whole  face  flushed  as  he  spoke 
thus,  in  low  tones. 

Benedetto  bowed  his  head,  and  Don  Clemente 
laid  his  hands  upon  it  with  gentle  dignity. 

"  Do  you  desire  to  surrender  your  whole  being 


Face  to  Face 


to  Supreme  Truth,  to  His  Church,  visible  and 
invisible?"  said  the  low,  manly  voice. 

As  though  he  had  expected  both  the  action  and 
the  question,  Benedetto  answered  at  once,  and 
in  a  firm  voice: 

"Yes." 

The  low  voice: 

"Do  you  promise,  as  from  man  to  man,  to 
remain  unwed  and  poor,  until  I  shall  absolve  you 
from  your  promise?" 

The  firm  voice- 

"Yes." 

The  low  voice: 

"Do  you  promise  to  be  obedient  always  to 
the  authority  of  the  Holy  Church,  administered 
according  to  her  laws?" 

The  firm  voice: 

"Yes." 

Don  Clemente  drew  his  disciple's  head  towards 
him,  and  said,  his  lips  almost  touching  Benedetto's 
forehead  : 

"  I  asked  the  Abbot  to  allow  me  to  give  you  the 
habit  of  a  lay-brother,  that  on  leaving  here  you 
might,  at  least,  carry  with  you  the  sign  of  a  humble 
religious  office.  The  Abbot  wished  to  speak  with 
you  before  deciding." 

Here  Don  Clemente  kissed  his  disciple  on 
the  forehead,  thus  intimating  what  the  Abbot's 
decision  had  been  after  their  meeting;  and 
into  the  kiss  he  put  silent  words  of  praise, 
which  his  fatherly  character  and  the  humility 


152  The  Saint 

of  his  disciple  would  not  permit  him  to  utter. 

He  did  not  notice  that  the  disciple  was  trembling 
from  head  to  foot. 

"Here  is  what  the  Abbot  wrote  after  talking 
with  you,"  said  he. 

He  showed  Benedetto  the  sheet  of  paper,  upon 
which  the  Abbot  had  written: 

"I  consent.  Send  him  away  at  once,  that  I 
may  not  be  tempted  to  detain  him !" 

Benedetto  embraced  his  master  impulsively,  and 
rested  his  forehead  against  his  shoulder  without 
speaking.  Don  Clemente  murmured:  "Are  you 
glad?  Now  it  is  I  who  ask  you!" 

He  repeated  his  question  twice  without  obtain- 
ing an  answer.  At  last  he  heard  a  whisper: 

"  May  I  be  allowed  not  to  answer?  May  I  pray 
a  moment?" 

"Yes,  caro,  yes!" 

Beside  the  monk's  harrow  bed,  and  high  above 
the  kneeling-desk,  a  great  bare  cross  proclaimed : 
"Christ  is  risen;  now  nail  thy  soul  to  me!"  In 
fact  some  one,  perhaps  Don  Clemente,  perhaps 
one  of  his  predecessors,  had  written  below  it: 
"Omnes  superbice  motus  ligno  crucis  affigat" 
Benedetto  prostrated  himself  on  the  floor,  and 
placed  his  forehead  where  the  knees  should  rest. 
Through  the  open  window  of  the  cell,  the  pale 
light  of  the  rainy  sky  fell  obliquely  upon  the  backs 
of  the  prostrate  man  and  of  the  man  standing 
erect,  his  face  raised  towards  the  great  cross. 
The  murmur  of  the  rain,  the  rumble  of  the  deep 


Face  to  Face  153 

Anio,  would  have  meant  to  Jeanne  the  distressed 
lament  of  all  that  lives  and  loves  in  the  world; 
to  Don  Clemente  they  meant  the  pious  union 
of  inferior  creatures  with  the  creature  supplicating 
the  common  Father.  Benedetto  himself  did  not 
notice  them. 

He  rose,  his  face  composed,  and,  in  obedience 
to  his  master's  gesture,  put  on  the  robe  of  a  lay- 
brother,  which  was  spread  out  upon  the  bed, 
and  fastened  the  leathern  girdle.  When  he  was 
dressed  he  opened  wide  his  arms  and  displayed 
himself,  smiling  to  his  master,  who  was  gratified 
to  see  how  dignified,  how  spiritually  beautiful  he 
was  in  that  habit. 

"You  did  not  understand?"  said  Benedetto. 
"You  were  not  reminded  of  something?" 

No,  Don  Clemente  had  thought  that  Benedetto's 
intense  emotion  had  been  caused  by  his  humility. 
Now  he  understood  that  he  should  have  recalled 
something;  but  what? 

"Ah!"  he  suddenly  exclaimed.  "Was  it  per- 
haps your  vision?" 

Yes,  surely.  Benedetto  had  seen  himself  dying 
on  the  bare  ground,  in  the  shade  of  a  great  tree, 
and  wearing  the  habit  of  the  Benedictines;  and 
one  argument  against  believing  in  the  vision — 
in  accordance  with  the  advice  of  Don  Giuseppe 
Flores  and  of  Don  Clemente — had  been  the  seem- 
ing contradiction  between  this  detail  and  his 
repugnance  to  the  monastic  vows,  which  had  been 
ever  increasing  since  his  withdrawal  from  the 


154  The  Saint 

world.  Now  this  contradiction  seemed  to  be 
vanishing,  and  therefore  the  credibility  of  the 
prophetic  nature  of  the  vision  was  reappearing. 
Don  Clemente  was  aware  of  this  part  of  the  vision, 
and  should  have  been  able  to  read  in  Benedetto's 
heart,  his  awe  at  being  once  more  confronted  with 
a  mysterious,  divine  purpose  concerning  him, 
and  his  fear  of  falling  into  the  sin  of  pride.  Of 
this,  he  had  not  thought. 

"  Do  not  you  think  of  it,  either, "  said  he,  and  he 
hastened  to  change  the  subject.  He  gave  Bene- 
detto some  books  and  a  letter  for  the  parish- 
priest  at  Jenne,  whose  guest  he  would  be  for  the 
present.  Whether  or  no  he  should  remain  at 
Jenne,  and  in  case  he  did  not,  whether  he  should 
return  to  Subiaco  or  go  elsewhere,  that  Divine 
Providence  must  point  out  to  him. 

"Padre  mio,"  Benedetto  said,  "truly  I  do  not 
think  of  what  may  happen  to  me  to-morrow,  I 
think  only  of  the  words:  'Magister  adest  et  vocat 
me!'  but  not  as  being  spoken  by  a  supernatural 
voice.  I  was  wrong  not  to  understand  that  the" 
Master  is  always  present,  and  always  calling  me, 
you,  every  one!  If  only  our  soul  be  hushed,  we 
may  hear  His  voice!  " 

A  faint  ray  of  sunshine  glinted  into  the  cell. 
Don  Clemente  reflected  at  once  that  should  the 
rain  cease,  Signora  Dessalle  would  very  probably 
come  to  visit  the  monastery.  He  said  nothing, 
but  his  inward  anxiety  betrayed  itself  by  a  slight 


Face  to  Face  155 

shudder,  by  a  glance  at  the  sky  which  told 
Benedetto  it  was  time  to  leave.  He  begged  the 
privilege  of  praying,  first  in  the  Church  of  Santa 
Scolastica,  and  then  at  the  Sacro  Speco.  The 
sun  disappeared,  and  it  began  to  rain  again. 
Master  and  disciple  descended  to  the  church 
together,  and  there,  kneeling  side  by  side,  they 
lingered  in  prayer.  That  was  their  only  farewell. 
At  nine  o'clock  Benedetto  took  the  road  to  the 
Sacro  Speco.  He  left  the  monastery  unobserved, 
while  Fra  Antonio  was  confabulating  with  Gio- 
vanni Selva's  messenger.  At  that  moment  the 
rays  of  the  returning  sun  suddenly  lit  up  the  old 
walls,  the  road,  the  hill  itself;  shrill  cries  of  glad- 
ness, swift  wings  of  tiny  birds  broke  through  the 
green  on  all  sides,  and  to  his  lips  the  words  rose 
spontaneously : 
"I  am  coming!" 

Ill 

Jeanne  and  Noemi  reached  the  monastery  at 
ten  o'clock.  A  few  paces  from  the  gate  Jeanne 
was  seized  with  a  violent  palpitation.  She 
would  have  liked  to  visit  the  garden  before  the 
convent,  the  urchin  from  Subiaco  having  told 
her  that  the  monks  of  Santa  Scolastica  had  a  fine 
kitchen-garden,  and  that  some  people  belonging 
to  them  worked  in  it — an  old  man  from  Subiaco 
and  a  young  stranger.  Now,  it  was  out  of  the 
question.  Pale,  exhausted,  and  leaning  on  Noemi 's 


156  The  Saint 

arm,  she,  with  difficulty,  dragged  herself  as  far 
as  the  door,  where  a  beggar  stood,  waiting  for 
his  bowl  of  soup.  Fortunately  Fra  Antonio 
opened  the  door  before  Noemi  had  time  to  ring, 
and  she  entreated  him  to  bring  a  chair  and  a 
glass  of  water  for  her  friend,  who  was  feeling 
unwell.  Frightened  at  the  sight  of  Jeanne,  so 
deathly  pale,  and  drooping  against  her  companion's 
shoulder,  the  humble  old  lay-brother  placed  the 
bowl  of  soup  he  had  brought  for  the  beggar  in 
Noemi 's  hands,  and  hastened  away  in  search  of 
the  chair  and  the  water.  Thanks  partly  to  the 
droll  spectacle  the  astonished  Noemi  presented, 
as  she  stood  holding  the  bowl  of  soup,  partly  to 
the  rest — the  water,  the  sight  of  the  ancient  clois- 
ter sleeping  so  peacefully,  and  the  reassertion  of  her 
own  will — a  few  minutes  sufficed  to  restore  Jeanne 
sufficiently.  Fra  Antonio  went  to  call  the  Padre 
foresterario,  to  act  as  guide  to  the  visitors. 

"Tell  him  we  are  the  two  ladies  staying  at 
Signer  Selva's  house,"  said  Noemi. 

Don  Clemente  appeared,  blushing  in  the  virginal 
purity  of  his  soul  because  Jeanne  was  unaware 
that  he  knew  her  story,  as  he  might  have  blushed 
had  he  been  committing  some  fraud.  He  mistook 
Noemi,  who  came  forward  first,  for  Signora 
Dessalle.  Tall,  slim,  and  elegant,  Noemi  might 
well  pass  for  a  siren;  she  did  not,  however,  look 
a  day  over  five  and  twenty,  and  therefore  could 
not  be  the  woman  of  whose  adventures  Benedetto 
had  told  him.  But  the  Benedictine  was  incapable 


Face  to  Face  157 

of  such  calculations,  and  Noemi  was  anxious  to 
satisfy  herself  that  Fra  Antonio  had  fulfilled  his 
mission  faithfully. 

"Good  morning,  Padre,"  she  said  in  her  pretty 
voice,  to  which  the  foreign  accent  lent  additional 
charm.  "We  met  last  night.  You  were  just 
leaving  Signor  Selva's  house." 

Don  Clemente  bent  his  head  slightly.  Noemi 
had  really  hardly  had  a  glimpse  of  him,  but  she 
had  been  struck  by  his  beauty,  and  had  reflected 
that  if  he  were  Signor  Maironi  she  could  under- 
stand Jeanne's  passion.  Conscious  of  her  fresh 
and  youthful  appearance,  it  never  entered  her 
head  that  her  twenty-five  years  could  be  mistaken 
for  Jeanne's  thirty-two.  Jeanne,  in  the  mean- 
time, was  wondering  how  she  could  turn  her 
dilemma  to  the  best  account. 

"You  were  not  expected  last  night,"  said 
Don  Clemente  to  Noemi.  "You  come  from  the 
Veneto,  I  believe?" 

"The  Veneto?"     Noemi  seemed  surprised. 

"The  Selvas  told  me  you  lived  in  the  Veneto," 
the  Padre  added. 

Then  Noemi  understood.  She  smiled,  and 
murmured  a  monosyllable  which  was  neither 
"yes"  nor  "no";  she  also  was  determined  to  take 
advantage  of  her  position,  and,  thanks  to  this 
misunderstanding,  obtain  a  private  interview 
with  Don  Clemente,  and  warn  him  if  necessary. 
It  was  moreover  most  amusing  to  talk  to  this 
handsome  monk,  who  believed  her  to  be  Jeanne. 


158  The  Saint 

By  a  look  she  cautioned  Jeanne,  who,  much 
embarrassed,  was  glancing  from  her  to  the  monk, 
doubtful  whether  to  speak  or  remain  silent. 

"Of  course  my  friend  knows  Santa  Scolastica 
already, "she  said,  "but  I  have  never  been  here 
before." 

She  turned  to  Jeanne. 

"If  the  Padre  will  be  kind  enough  to  accom- 
pany me,  it  seems  to  me  you  might  remain 
here,  as  you  are  not  feeling  well, "  she  said. 

Jeanne  consented  so  readily  that  Noemi  sus- 
pected she  had  some  secret  plan,  and  wondered 
if  she  had  not  made  a  mistake  in  proposing  this. 
However,  it  was  too  late  now.  Don  Clemente, 
not  over-pleased  at  having  to  accompany  one 
lady  alone,  suggested  they  should  wait;  perhaps 
her  friend  would  feel  stronger  presently.  Jeanne 
protested.  No,  they  must  not  wait;  she  was  glad 
to  remain  there. 

While  passing  from  the  first  to  the  second 
cloister,  Noemi  once  more  reminded  the  Padre 
of  their  meeting  on  the  previous  night. 

"You  had  a  companion?"  she  said,  and  imme- 
diately felt  ashamed  of  her  deceit,  and  of  not 
having  cleared  up  the  mistake  under  which  the 
monk  was  labouring.  Don  Clemente  answered 
almost  under  his  breath: 

"Yes,  signora,  a  kitchen-gardener  from  the 
monastery." 

Both   their  faces  were  crimson,  but  they  did 


Face  to  Face  159 

not  look  at  one  another,  and  each  was  conscious 
only  of  his  and  her  own  blush. 

"  Do  you  know  who  we  are? "  Noemi  continued. 

Don  Clemente  replied  that  he  believed  he  knew. 
They  must  be  the  two  ladies  Signora  Selva 
expected.  He  thought  she  had  mentioned  her 
sister  and  Signora  Dessalle. 

"  Oh!  you  heard  of  us  from  my  sister?" 

At  Noemi's  words  Don  Clemente  could  not 
refrain  from  exclaiming: 

"Then   you   are   not   Signora    Dessalle?" 

Noemi  saw  that  the  man  knew.  Therefore 
he  had  surely  taken  precautions,  and  an  unex- 
pected meeting  was  not  possible.  She  breathed 
freely  again,  and  in  her  feminine  heart  curiosity 
took  the  place  of  the  anxiety  of  which  she  was  now 
relieved. 

Don  Clemente  spoke  to  her  of  the  tower,  of 
the  ancient  arcades,  of  the  frescoes  near  the  door 
of  the  church,  while  she  wondered  how  he  could 
be  brought  to  speak  of  Maironi.  When  he  was 
showing  her  the  procession  of  little  stone  monks, 
she  interrupted  him  thoughtlessly,  to  ask  if  souls, 
tired  of  the  world,  disappointed  and  desirous  of 
giving  themselves  to  God,  often  came  to  the 
monastery. 

"  I  am  a  Protestant, "  she  said.  "  This  interests 
me  greatly." 

In  his  heart  Don  Clemente  thought  that  if 
this  really  interested  her  greatly,  it  was  not  on 


160  The  Saint 

account  of  her  Protestantism,  but  on  account 
of  her  friendship  for  Signora  Dessalle. 

"  Not  often, "  he  answered ;  "  sometimes.  Such 
souls  usually  prefer  other  Orders.  So  you  are 
a  Protestant?  But  you  will  have  no  objection  to 
entering  our  church?  I  do  not  mean  the  Catholic 
Church, "  he  added,  smiling  and  blushing,  "  I  mean 
the  church  of  our  monastery." 

And  he  told  her  about  a  Protestant  Englishman, 
who  was  in  love  with  St.  Benedict,  and  made 
long  stays  at  Subiaco,  frequently  visiting  Santa 
Scolastica  and  the  Sacro  Speco. 

"  He  has  a  most  beautiful  soul, "  he  said. 

But  Noemi  wished  to  return  to  the  first  subject; 
to  know  if — urged  by  a  spirit  of  penitence — any 
one  ever  came  from  the  world  to  serve  in  the 
cloister  without  wearing  the  habit.  She  received 
no  answer,  for  Don  Clemente,  seeing  a  colossal 
monk  enter  the  cloister,  begged  to  be  excused 
one  minute,  and  went  to  speak  to  him,  returning 
presently  with  his  majestic  companion,  whom  he 
introduced  as  Don  Leone,  a  guide  far  superior 
to  himself,  both  as  to  the  amount  and  the  depths 
of  his  knowledge.  Then,  to  her  great  chagrin, 
he  himself  withdrew. 

When  she  was  alone  Jeanne  had  another  attack 
of  violent  palpitation.  Dio!  how  the  past  came 
back  to  her!  How  Praglia  came  back!  And 
to  think  that  he  came  and  went  through  that 
entrance,  through  those  cloisters,  who  knows  how 


Face  to  Face  161 

many  times  a  day;  that  he  must  often  think  of 
Praglia,  of  that  hour  fixed  by  fate,  of  that  water 
spilled,  of  the  ecstasy,  the  tightly  clasped  hands, 
under  cover  of  the  fur  cloak,  on  the  way  home. 
To  think  he  was  now  free,  and  she  also  was  free! 
How  feverish  she  felt,  how  feverish! 

Fra  Antonio,  who  had  at  first  been  terrified 
at  finding  this  breathless  woman  left  there  on 
his  hands,  was  presently  amazed  by  the  rapid 
words  and  questions  with  which  she  suddenly 
assailed  him. — Was  there  not  a  kitchen-garden 
near  the  monastery? — Yes,  very  near,  on  the 
west  side;  there  was  only  a  narrow  lane  inter- 
vening.— And  who  cultivated  it? — A  kitchen- 
gardener. — Young?  Old?  From  Subiaco?  A 
stranger? — Old.  From  Subiaco. — And  no  one  else? 
—Yes,  Benedetto. — Benedetto?  Who  was  Bene- 
detto ? — A  young  man  from  the  Padre  foresterario' s 
native  town. — And  what  was  the  Padre  forester- 
aria's  native  town? — Brescia. — And  this  young 
man  was  called  Benedetto? — Every  one  called 
him  Benedetto,  but  Fra  Antonio  could  not  say 
if  that  was  his  real  name. — But  what  sort  of  man 
was  he? — Ah!  that  Fra  Antonio  could  say.  He 
was  almost  more  holy  than  the  monks  themselves. 
You  could  see  by  his  face  that  he  came  of  a  good 
family,  yet  he  was  housed  like  a  dog;  he  ate  only 
bread,  fruit,  and  herbs;  he  spent  whole  nights, 
in  prayer  probably,  out  on  the  mountains.  He 
tilled  the  soil,  and  he  also  studied  in  the  library 
with  the  Padre  foresterario.  And  such  a  heart! 


162  The  Saint 

Such  a  great  heart!  Many  times  he  had  given 
the  scanty  dole  of  food  he  received  from  the 
monastery  to  the  poor. — And  where  could  one 
find  him  at  this  hour? — Oh!  surely  in  the  garden; 
Fra  Antonio  fancied  he  would  be  busy  sprinkling 
the  grape  vines  with  sulphate  of  copper. 

Jeanne's  heart  beats  so  violently  that  her  sight 
becomes  dim.  She  sits  silent  and  motionless. 
Fra  Antonio  thinks  she  has  forgotten  Benedetto. 
"Ah!  signora,"  he  says,  "Santa  Scolastica  is  a 
fine  monastery,  but  you  should  see  Praglia!" 
For  Fra  Antonio  passed  several  years  at  Praglia 
in  his  youth,  before  the  abbey  was  suppressed, 
and  he  speaks  of  it  as  of  a  venerable  mother. 
"Ah!  the  church  at  Praglia!  The  cloisters! 
The  hanging  cloister,  the  refectory!"  At  these 
unexpected  words  Jeanne  grows  excited.  They 
seem  to  say  to  her:  "Go,  go,  go  at  once!"  She 
starts  from  her  chair. 

"And  this  garden?  In  which  direction  is  it?" 

Fra  Antonio,  somewhat  astonished,  answered 
that  it  might  be  reached  through  the  monastery, 
or  by  skirting  the  outside.  Jeanne  went  out; 
absorbed  in  her  burning  thoughts  she  passed  the 
gate,  turned  to  the  right,  entered  the  gallery 
below  the  library,  where  she  paused  a  moment, 
pressing  her  hands  to  her  heart,  and  walked  on 
again. 

The  herder  belonging  to  the  convent,  standing 
at  the  entrance  to  the  courtyard  where  the  Ospizio, 
which  shelters  pilgrims,  is  located,  pointed  out  the 


Face  to  Face  163 

door  of  the  garden  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  nar- 
row lane,  running  between  two  walls.  She  asked 
him  if  she  would  find  a  certain  Benedetto  in  the 
garden.  In  spite  of  her  efforts  to  control  herself, 
her  voice  trembled  in  anticipation  of  an  affirma- 
tive answer.  The  herder  replied  that  he  did  not 
know,  and  offered  to  go  and  see.  Knocking  several 
times,  he  called :  "  Benede !  Benede !" 

A  step  at  last!  Jeanne  was  leaning  against  the 
door-post  to  keep  herself  from  falling.  O  God! 
if  it  be  Piero,  what  shall  she  say  to  him  ?  The 
door  opens;  it  is  not  Piero  but  an  old  man. 
Jeanne  breathes  freely  again,  glad  for  the  moment. 
The  old  man  looks  at  her,  astonished,  and  says 
to  the  herder: 

"Benedetto  is  not  here." 

Her  gladness  had  already  vanished ;  she  felt  icy 
cold;  the  two  men  looked  at  her  curiously,  in 
silence. 

"  Is  this  the  lady  who  is  looking  for  Benedetto?" 
said  the  old  man. 

Jeanne  did  not  reply;  the  herder  answered  for 
her,  and  then  he  told  how  Benedetto  had  spent 
the  night  out  of  doors ;  that  he  had  found  him  at 
daybreak,  in  the  grove  of  the  Sacro  Speco,  wet  to 
the  skin.  He  had  offered  him  some  milk  and 
Benedetto  had  drunk  like  a  dying  man  to  whom 
life  is  returning. 

"  Listen,  Giovacchino,  "the  herder  added,  grow- 
ing suddenly  grave.  "When  he  had  drunk  he 


1 64  The  Saint 

embraced  me  like  this.  I  was  feeling  ill;  I  had 
not  slept,  my  head  ached,  all  my  bones  ached. 
Well,  as  he  held  me  in  his  arms  slight  shivers 
seemed  to  come  from  them  and  creep  over  me,  and 
then  I  felt  a  sort  of  comforting  heat;  and  I  was 
content,  and  as  comfortable  all  over  as  if  I  had 
had  two  mouthfuls  of  the  very  best  spirits  in  my 
stomach!  The  headache  was  gone,  the  pains  in 
the  bones  were  gone,  everything  was  gone.  Then 
I  said  to  myself:  'By  St.  Catherine,  this  man  is  a 
saint ! '  And  a  sain t  he  certainly  is ! " 

While  he  was  speaking  a  poor  cripple  passed ,  a 
beggar  from  Subiaco.  Seeing  a  lady,  he  stopped 
and  held  out  his  hat.  Jeanne,  completely  ab- 
sorbed in  what  the  herder  was  saying,  did  not 
notice  him.  nor  did  she  hear  him  when — the  herder 
having  ceased  speaking — be  begged  for  alms, 
for  the  love  of  God.  She  asked  the  gardener 
where  this  Benedetto  was  to  be  found.  The  man 
scratched  his  head,  doubtful  how  to  answer. 
Then  the  beggar  groaned  out  in  a  mournful 
voice : 

"You  are  seeking  Benedetto?  He  is  at  the 
Sacro  Speco." 

Jeanne  turned  eagerly  towards  him. 

"At  the  Sacro  Speco?"  said  she;  and  the 
gardener  asked  the  beggar  if  he  himself  had  seen 
him  there. 

The  cripple,  more  tearful  than  ever,  told  how 
more  than  an  hour  ago  he  had  been  on  the  road 


Face  to  Face  165 

to  the  Sacro  Speco,  beyond  the  grove  of  evergreen 
oaks,  only  a  few  steps  from  the  convent.  He 
was  carrying  a  bundle  of  fagots,  and  had  fallen 
badly,  and  could  not  rise  again  with  his  burden. 

"God  and  St.  Benedict  sent  a  monk  that  way," 
he  continued.  "This  monk  lifted  me  up,  com- 
forted me,  gave  me  his  arm,  and  took  me  to  the 
convent,  where  the  other  monks  restored  me. 
Then  I  came  away,  but  the  monk  stayed  at  the 
Sacro  Speco." 

"And  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  it?"  the 
gardener  exclaimed. 

"  Simply  this,  that  dressed  as  he  was  I  did  not 
at  once  know  him;  but  afterwards  I  did.  It  was 
he." 

"Whom  do  you  mean  by  he?" 

"Benedetto." 

"Who  was  Benedetto?" 

"The  monk." 

"You  are  mad!  You  idiot!"  the  two  men 
exclaimed  together. 

Jeanne  gave  the  cripple  a  silver  piece. 

"Think  well,"  she  said.     "Tell  the  truth!" 

The  cripple  overflowed  with  benedictions,  min- 
gling with  them  such  humble  expressions  as :  "  Just 
as  you  please,  just  as  you  please!  I  may  have 
been  mistaken,  I  may  have  been  mistaken," 
and  with  his  string  of  pious  mumblings  he  took 
himself  off.  Jeanne  again  questioned  the  herder 
and  the  gardener.  Was  it  possible  that  Bene- 


1 66  The  Saint 

detto  had  taken  the  habit? — Impossible!  The 
beggar  was  only  a  poor  fool. 

Presently  the  herder  left,  and  Jeanne,  entering 
the  kitchen-garden,  sat  down  under  an  olive  tree, 
reflecting  that  Noemi  could  easily  learn  from  the 
door-keeper  where  to  find  her.  The  old  gardener, 
whose  curiosity  was  aroused,  asked,  with  many 
apologies,  if  she  was  a  relative  of  Benedetto's. 

"For  it  is  known  that  he  is  a  gentleman,  a 
rich  man !"  said  he. 

Jeanne  did  not  answer  his  question.  She 
wished  rather  to  find  out  why  this  belief  in  Piero's 
riches  prevailed. — Well,  you  could  see  by  his 
manners  and  by  his  face;  he  really  had  the  face 
of  a  gentleman. — And  he  had  not  become  a  monk? 
— Well,  no. — And  why  had  he  not  become  a 
monk? — That  was  not  known  for  a  certainty. 
There  were  many  tales  told.  It  was  even  said 
he  had  a  wife,  and  that  his  wife  had  played  him 
what  the  gardener  called  "  a  mean  trick."  Jeanne 
was  silent,  and  it  suddenly  struck  the  gardener 
that  she  might  be  the  wife,  the  woman  who  had 
played  the  "mean  trick."  She  had  perhaps 
repented,  and  was  come  to  ask  his  forgiveness. 

"  If  this  story  about  the  wife  is  true, "  he  added, 
"  I  don't  say  she  may  not  have  had  her  reasons ; 
but  as  far  as  goodness  goes,  she  surely  did  not  find 
a  better  man.  You  see,  signora,  these  fathers 
are  holy  men,  that  is  undeniable;  but  there  is  no 
one  so  holy  as  he,  either  at  Santa  Scolastica  or  at 
the  Sacro  Speco.  That  I  will  swear  to!  Not 


Face  to  Face  167 

even  Don  Clemente,  who  is  most  holy!  Still 
he  is  not  equal  to  Benedetto.  No,  no!" 

The  beggar's  words  suddenly  sounded  in  Jeanne's 
heart.  Benedetto  a  monk!  But  why?  It  was 
discouraging  to  have  them  thus  return,  without 
a  reason,  to  her  heart.  Had  not  the  two  men 
said  it  was  nonsense;  that  the  cripple  was  a  fool? 
Yes,  nonsense,  she  could  see  that  herself ;  yes,  a 
fool,  he  had  impressed  her  as  such;  but  still  the 
stupid  words  beat  and  throbbed  in  her  heart,  as 
gruesome  as  masqueraders  in  comic  masks  would 
be  should  they  knock  at  your  door  at  any  other 
time  save  during  Carnival! 

"  If  you  will  wait,  signora,  in  less  than  half  an 
hour  he  is  sure  to  be  here.  Che!  What  am  I 
saying?  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Perhaps  he 
is  in  the  library  studying  with  Don  Clemente, 
or  perhaps  he  is  in  the  church." 

The  library,  which  runs  across  the  narrow  lane, 
communicates  directly  with  the  kitchen-garden. 

"There  he  is  now!"  the  old  man  exclaimed. 

Jeanne  started  to  her  feet.  The  door  leading  from 
the  library  to  the  garden  opened  slowly.  Instead  of 
Piero,  Noemi  appeared,  followed  by,  the  big  monk. 
Noemi  perceived  her  friend  among  the  olives, 
and  stopped  suddenly,  greatly  surprised.  Jeanne 
in  the  garden?  Was  it  possible  that — ?  No, 
the  old  man  beside  her  could  not  be  Maironi,  and 
there  was  no  one  else  with  her.  She  smiled  and 
shook  her  finger  at  her.  Don  Leone  took  leave 
of  Noemi  upon  learning  that  this  was  the  friend 


1 68  The  Saint 

who — as  she  had  told  him  during  the  visit  to  the 
monastery — had  remained  at  the  door-keeper's 
lodge.  Of  course  the  ladies  would  go  up  to  the 
other  convent,  and  his  great  size  was  no  longer 
adapted  to  the  climb  to  the  Sacro  Speco. 

It  was  nearly  eleven  o'clock ;  they  had  ordered 
the  carriage  to  meet  them  where  they  had  left 
it  at  half-past  twelve,  for  dinner  was  at  one  at  the 
Selvas';  if  Jeanne  wished  to  see  the  Sacro  Speco 
there  was  no  time  to  lose,  provided  her  indisposi- 
tion had  disappeared,  as  would  seem  to  be  the 
case.  Noemi  encouraged  her  going,  and  did  not 
-top  to  ask,  in  the  presence  of  the  gardener, 
v/hy  she  had  left  Fra  Antonio  to  run  off  and  ex- 
plore the  garden.  She  merely  whispered :  "  You 
were  making  believe,  eh?"  Jeanne  said  that 
Noemi  must  certainly  start  for  the  Sacro  Speco  at 
once,  but  that  she  herself  intended  to  wait  for 
her  in  th^  garden.  Noemi  suspected  another  plot. 

"No,  no!"  she  exclaimed,  "either  you  come 
to  the  Sacro  Speco  or — if  you  do  not  feel  well 
enough — we  will  go  down  to  Subiaco  at  once." 

Jeanne  objected  that  it  would  be  useless  to  go 
down  now,  for  they  would  not  find  the  carriage; 
but  Noemi  was  determined  not  to  yield.  They 
could  walk  down  very  slowly,  and  be  ready  for 
the  carriage  as  soon  as  it  arrived,  Jeanne  refused 
again,  more  emphatically  than  before,  having 
no  other  argument  to  set  forth.  Then  Noemi 
looked  searchingly  into  her  eyes,  silently  trying 


Face  to  Face  169 

to  read  her  hidden  purpose  there.  In  that 
moment  of  silence  Jeanne's  heart  was  again 
assailed  by  the  beggar's  words.  Impulsively 
she  seized  her  friend's  arm. 

"You  wish  me  to  go  to  the  Sacro  Speco?"  she 
said.  "Very  well,  let  us  go  then.  You  believe 
something  and  you  do  not  know!  Let  Fate 
decide!" 

But  before  moving  a  step  she  dropped  her 
friend's  arm,  and  while  Noemi,  completely  bewil- 
dered, stood  watching  her  she  wrote  in  her  note- 
book: "I  am  at  the  Sacro  Speco.  For  the  sake 
of  Don  Giuseppe  Flores  wait  for  me ! "  She  did  not 
sign  her  name,  but  tearing  out  the  tiny  page  gave 
it  to  the  gardener.  "For  that  man,  should  he 
return."  Then  once  more  taking  Noemi 's  arm, 
she  exclaimed: 

"Let  us  go!" 

The  sun's  burning  rays,  smiting  the  steaming, 
rocky  hillside,  brought  out  damp  odours  of  herbs 
and  of  stone,  silvered  the  puffs  of  mist  creeping 
along  the  sides  of  the  narrow,  wild  valley,  as  far 
as  the  enormous  mass  resting  there,  in  the  back- 
ground, like  a  cap  on  the  heights  of  Jenne,  while 
the  mighty  voice  of  the  Anio  filled  the  solitude. 
Jeanne  climbed  upwards  in  silence,  without  reply- 
ing to  Noemi 's  questions.  Noemi  was  becoming 
more  and  more  alarmed  by  her  silence,by  her  pallor, 
by  the  nervous  twitching  of  her  arm,  by  the  sight  of 


1 70  'The  Saint 

her  lips  pressed  tightly  together,  to  keep  back  her 
sobs.  Why  was  she  thus  moved?  During  the 
night  and,  indeed,  until  they  had  reached  the 
entrance  to  Santa  Scolastica,  the  poor  creature 
had  wavered  between  fear  and  hope,  in  a  fever 
of  expectancy.  Now  her  fever  was  of  a  different 
nature;  at  least  it  seemed  so  to  Noemi.  She 
thought  Jeanne  must  have  heard  something  there 
in  the  garden,  something  of  which  she  did  not 
wish  to  speak,  something  painful,  frightful! 
What  could  it  be?  The  tragic  lament  of  the 
invisible  water,  the  silent  trembling  of  the  blades 
of  grass  on,  the  rocky  slope,  even  the  burning  heat, 
made  the  heart  shrink.  A  few  paces  from  the 
arch  which,  standing  rigid  there,  holds  in  check 
the  black  crowd  of  evergreen  oaks,  Noemi 
was  relieved  to  hear  human  voices.  They  be- 
longed to  Dane  on  horseback  and  to  Marinier 
and  the  Abbot  on  foot,  who  were  coming  down 
together  from  the  Sacro  Speco. 

Dane  showed  great  pleasure  at  this  meeting ;  he 
stopped  his  horse,  presented  the  ladies  to  the 
Abbot,  and  spoke  of  the  Sacro  Speco  in  enthusi- 
astic language.  Jeanne,  after  exchanging  a  few 
words  with  the  Abbot,  asked  him  if  any  one  had" 
recently  pronounced  the  solemn  vows  or  perhaps 
taken  the  habit.  The  Abbot  replied  that  he  had 
been  at  Santa  Scolastica  only  a  few  days,  and 
was  not,  at  that  moment,  in  a  position  to  answer 
her  question ;  but  he  did  not  believe  any  one  had 
made  the  solemn  profession  or  assumed  the  habit 


Face  to  Face  i;1 

of  a  novice  at  Santa  Scolastica  for  at  least  a  year. 
Jeanne  was  radiant  with  joy.  Now  she  under- 
stood ;  she  had  been  a  fool  to  believe  it  possible, 
even  for  a  single  moment,  that  in  twelve  hours 
Piero  the  peasant  had  become  Piero  the  monk. 
She  longed  to  return  at  once  to  the  garden  at 
Santa  Scolastica;  but  how  could  she  manage  it? 
what  pretext  could  she  invent?  She  pressed 
forward,  anxious  to  be  done  with  the  Sacro  Speco 
as  soon  as  possible.  Noemi  proposed  resting  a 
few  minutes  in  the  shade  of  the  evergreen  oaks, 
which,  there  on  the  path  of  those  souls  agitated 
by  Divine  Love,  themselves  seem  twisted  by  an 
inward  ascetic  fury,  by  a  frantic  effort  to  tear 
themselves  from  the  earth,  and  to  dart  their  arms 
into  the  sky.  Jeanne  refused  impatiently.  The 
colour  had  returned  to  her  face,  and  the  light  to 
her  eyes.  She  started  rapidly  up  the  narrow 
stair  where  the  short  walk  comes  to  an  end,  and 
in  spite  of  the  protests  of  Noemi  (who  could  not 
understand  the  cause  of  this  change)  would  not 
stop  to  take  breath  at  the  head  of  the  stairs 
where,  suddenly,  the  dark,  deep  spectacle  of  the 
valley  reveals  itself.  High  up  on  the  left  looms 
the  terrible  crag,  dear  to  falcons  and  crows, 
bulging  out  above  the  dreary  walls,  pierced  by 
unadorned  openings  which  are  incrusted  upon 
the  bare  slope,  running  crosswise  along  its  face, 
and  form  the  monastery  of  the  Sacro  Speco. 
In  the  depths  below  the  convent  hangs  the  rose 
garden  of  St.  Benedict,  and  below  the  rose  garden 


172  The  Saint 

hang  the  kitchen-garden  and  the  olive  groves, 
sloping  to  the  open  bed  of  the  roaring  Anio.  The 
mass  of  cloud  which  had  rested  on  the  heights 
of  Jenne  was  rising  and  invading  the  sky. 
A  wave  of  shadow  passed  over  the  enormous 
crag,  over  the  monastery,  over  the  parapet  upon 
which  Noemi  had  rested  her  elbows,  lost  in 
contemplation. 

"This  is  magnificent!"  she  said.  "Let  us  stop 
here  a  few  seconds  at  least,  now  that  it  is  shady." 

But  at  that  moment  the  little  door  of  the 
monastery,  not  two  steps  from  them,  opened 
and  a  party  of  visitors,  men  and  women,  came 
out.  The  monk  who  had  acted  as  guide,  seeing 
Noemi  and  Jeanne,  held  the  door  open,  expecting 
them  to  enter.  Jeanne  hastened  to  do  so,  and 
Noemi,  much  against  her  will,  followed  her. 

"Thirteenth  century  frescoes,"  said  the  Bene- 
dictine, in  the  dark  entrance-hall,  in  an  indifferent 
tone,  as  he  passed  on.  Noemi  stopped,  curiously 
regarding  the  ancient  paintings.  Jeanne  followed 
the  Benedictine,  looking  neither  to  right  nor  left, 
distracted,  tormented  by  a  doubt.  What  if  the 
Abbot  had  been  mistaken,  if  the  beggar  had  told 
the  truth?  She  recalled  in  fancy  the  happy 
meeting  in  the  courtyard  at  Praglia,  the  intense 
pallor  of  his  face,  the  "Thank  you!"  which  had 
made  her  tremble  with  joy.  A  shiver  ran  through 
her  blood,  and,  as  though  with  a  sudden  pull 
at  the  reins  of  her  imagination,  she  turned  to 
Noemi: 


Face  to  Face  1 73 

"Come!"  she  said. 

She  followed  the  monk,  hearing  nothing  that 
he  said,  observing  nothing  that  he  pointed  out. 
Noemi  found  it  difficult  to  hide  her  own  uneasiness, 
for  she  had  a  presentiment  of  evil  on  their  return. 
The  dangerous  point  was  the  garden  at  Santa 
Scolastica,  which,  judging  by  what  she  had  said 
to  the  old  gardener,  Jeanne  intended  to  revisit. 
She  no  longer  wished  to  see  this  famous  Maironi ; 
she  longed  only  to  get  Jeanne  safely  back  to  the 
Selvas',  without  any  meetings,  and  she  intended 
to  tarry  as  long  as  possible  at  the  Sacro  Speco, 
that  they  might  not  have  time  to  stop  at  Santa 
Scolastica.  She  therefore  pretended  to  take  a 
lively  interest  in  the  precious  interior  of  this 
monastery,  which  has  such  a  bare  and  dreary 
exterior,  while  all  the  while  her  one  wish  was  to 
revisit  it  more  peacefully  with  her  sister  or  her 
brother-in-law. 

Upon  descending  into  that  mine  of  holiness, 
neither  of  them  understood  what  road  they  were 
following,  surrounded  as  they  were  by  the  lifeless, 
cold  atmosphere,  the  mystic  shadows,  the  yellow- 
ish lights  falling  from  above,  the  odours  of  damp 
stone,  of  smoking  wicks,  of  musty  draperies; 
bewildered  by  visions  of  chapels,  of  grottos,  of 
crosses  at  the  foot  of  dark  stairs ;  losing  themselves 
in  their  flight  down  towards  the  lower  caverns, 
keeping  on  a  level  with  their  own  pointed  vaults ; 
of  marbles  the  colour  of  blood,  the  colour  of  the 
night,  the  colour  of  snow;  of  stiff,  pious  groups 


174  The  Saint 

with  Byzantine  features,  crowding  the  walls, 
the  drums  of  the  arches ;  of  little  monks  and  little 
friars,  standing  in  the  window  niches,  on  the 
pinnacles  of  the  vaults,  along  the  line  of  the 
entablatures,  each  with  his  venerable  aureole. 
The  visitors  did  not  know  what  path  they  were  fol- 
lowing, and  Jeanne  hardly  felt  the  reality  of  it  all. 

While  descending  the  Scala  Santa — the  Holy 
Staircase — the  monk  leading  and  Jeanne  following 
closely,  while  Noemi  came  last,  some  five  or  six 
steps  behind,  Jeanne,  suddenly  throwing  out  her 
hands,  clutched  the  guide's  shoulder,  and  then, 
ashamed  of  her  involuntary  action,  immediately 
withdrew  them,  while  the  monk,  who  was  greatly 
astonished,  stopped,  and  turned  his  head  towards 
her. 

"  Pardon  me! "  she  said.     "  Who  is  that  father?" 

Between  two  landings  of  the  Scala,  behind  a 
projection  of  the  left  wall,  a  figure,  all  black  in 
the  habit  of  the  Benedictines,  stood,  erect  and 
still,  in  the  dark  corner,  its  forehead  resting 
against  the  marble.  Jeanne  had  passed  it  by 
four  or  five  steps  without  having  perceived  it, 
then  she  had  chanced  to  look  round,  and  had 
seen  it,  while  an  instinctive  suspicion  flashed 
through  her  trembling  heart. 

The  monk  answered: 

"He  is  not  a  father,  signora." 

He  bent  down  to  unlock  the  low  gate  of  a  chapel. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  Noemi  inquired, 
drawing  near. 


Face  to  Face  175 

"He  is  not  a  father?"   Jeanne  repeated. 

Noemi  trembled  at  the  strange  ring  in  her 
friend's  voice.  She  herself  had  not  noticed  the 
figure  standing  erect  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall. 

"Who?"  she  asked. 

The  monk,  who,  in  the  meantime,  had  opened 
the  gate,  misunderstood  her,  and  thought  she 
referred  to  something  that  had  been  said 
before. 

"No,"  he  answered.  "The  authentic  portrait 
of  St.  Francis  is  not  here.  Lower  down  there 
is  a  St.  Francis  painted  by  the  Cavalier  Manente. 
You  will  see  it  presently.  Please  come  in." 

"What  is  it?"  Noemi  said  softly  to  Jeanne. 
Her  friend  having  answered  in  a  calmer  voice, 
"Nothing,"  she  passed  her,  entering  the  chapel, 
and  listened  to  the  monk's  explanations.  Then 
the  black  figure  moved  away  from  the  wall. 
Jeanne  saw  it  slowly  mounting  in  the  dim  light, 
under  the  pointed  arches.  On  the  upper  landing 
the  figure  turned  to  the  right,  and  disappeared, 
to  reappear  almost  immediately  on  an  arm  of 
the  stair,  crossing  the  slanting  background  of 
the  scene,  and  brilliant  in  the  light  of  an  invisible 
window.  The  figure  mounted  slowly,  almost 
wearily.  Before  it  vanished  behind  the  enormous 
flank  of  an  arch,  it  bent  its  head  and  looked  down. 
Jeanne  recognised  the  face! 

On  the  instant,  as  if  in  obedience  to  a  lightning 
will  impelling  her,  as  if  borne  along  by  the  rush 
of  her  destiny,  pale,  resolute,  without  knowing 


1 76  The  Saint 

what  she  would  say,  what  she  would  do,  she  started 
upwards.  Having  crossed  the  upper  landing,  she 
was  about  to  place  her  foot  on  the  lighter  stairway, 
when  she  stumbled  and  fell,  remaining  for  a 
moment  prostrate.  Thus  Noemi,  on  leaving 
the  chapel,  did  not  see  her,  and  concluded  she 
had  gone  down  in  search  of  the  portrait  of  St. 
Francis.  Jeanne  rose  and  started  forward;  she 
was  a  poor  creature  torn  by  passions,  to  whom  the 
images  of  celestial  peace,  grown  rigid  on  the  sacred 
walls,  called  in  vain.  All  before  her  was  silence 
and  void.  She  was  following  paths  unknown  to 
her,  swiftly,  securely,  as  one  in  an  hypnotic 
trance.  She  passed  through  dark  and  narrow 
places,  through  light  and  broad  places,  never 
hesitating,  never  looking  to  right  or  left,  all 
her  senses  sharpened  and  concentrated  in  her  hear- 
ing, following  little  sounds  of  distant  whisperings, 
the  faint  complaining  of  one  door,  the  breath  of 
wind  from  another,  the  brushing  of  a  robe  against 
the  frame.  Thus,  through  the  wide-open  wings 
of  the  last  door  she  passed  rapidly,  and  found 
herself  face  to  face  with  him. 

He  also  had  recognised  her,  at  the  last  moment, 
on  the  Scala  Santa.  .  He  felt  almost  certain  he 
himself  had  not  been  recognised,  nevertheless 
he  had  sought  to  avoid  the  path  usually  followed 
by  visitors.  Upon  hearing  a  swift  rustle  of 
woman's  drapery  approaching  that  mysterious 
hall,  he  understood  all,  and,  facing  the  entrance, 
he  waited. 


Face  to  Face  i?7 

She  perceived  him  and  stopped  suddenly,  in 
the  very  act  of  entering,  standing  as  though 
turned  to  stone,  between  the  wings  of  the  door; 
her  eyes  fixed  on  his  eyes,  which  no  longer  wore 
the  look  of  Piero  Maironi. 

He  was  transfigured.  His  form,  owing  perhaps 
to  the  black  habit,  appeared  slighter.  His  pale, 
fleshless  face,  his  brow,  which  seemed  to  have 
become  higher,  expressed  a  dignity,  a  gravity, 
a  sad  sweetness  which  Jeanne  had  never  known 
in  him.  And  the  eyes  were  totally  different 
eyes;  in  them  shone  a  something  ineffable  and 
divine,  much  humility,  much  power,  the  power 
of  a  transcendent  love,  springing  not  from  his 
heart,  but  from  a  mystic  fount  within  his  heart; 
a  love  reaching  beyond  her  heart,  but  seeking 
her  in  the  inner,  mysterious  regions  of  the  soul, 
regions  unknown  to  her.  Slowly,  slowly  she 
clasped  her  hands  and  sank  upon  her  knees. 

Benedetto  carried  the  forefinger  of  his  left  hand 
to  his  lips,  while  with  his  other  hand  he  pointed 
to  the  wall  facing  the  balcony,  which  opens  to 
the  hornbeams  of  the  Francolano  hill  and  to  the 
roar  of  the  river  far  below.  In  the  centre  of  the 
wall,  showing  black  and  large,  was  the  word 

SILENTIUM. 

For  centuries,  ever  since  the  word  had  been 
written  there,  no  human  voice  had  been  heard 
in  this  place.  Jeanne  did  not  look,  did  not  see. 
That  finger  at  Piero's  lips  was  enough  to  seal  her 


1 78  The  Saint 

own.  But  it  was  not  enough  to  check  the  sob 
in  her  throat.  She  gazed  at  him  intently,  her  lips 
pressed  tightly  together,  while  great,  silent  tears 
rolled  down  her  face.  Immovable,  his  arms 
hanging  close  to  his  sides,  Benedetto  slightly  bent 
his  head  and  closed  his  eyes,  absorbed  in  prayer. 
The  great,  black,  imperious  word,  big  with  shadows 
and  with  death,  triumphed  over  these  two  human 
souls,  while  from  the  shining  balcony  the  fierce 
souls  of  the  Anio  and  of  the  wind  roared  in  protest. 

Suddenly,  a  few  seconds  after  Benedetto's  eyes 
had  closed  to  her  gaze,  she  was  shaken  and  rent 
from  shoulder  to  knee  by  a  great  sob,  a  sob  bitter 
with  all  the  bitterness  of  her  fate.  He  opened 
his  eyes  and  looked  tenderly  at  her,  while  she 
drank  in  his  look  thirstily,  sobbing  twice,  as  in 
sorrowful  gratitude.  And  because  this  man,  her  be- 
loved, again  raised  his  finger  to  his  lips  she  bowed 
her  head  in  assent.  Yes,  yes,  she  would  be  silent, 
she  would  be  calm !  Still  in  obedience  to  his  gesture, 
to  his  look,  she  rose  to  her  feet  and  drew  back, 
allowing  him  to  pass  out  through  the  open  door; 
then  she  followed  him  humbly,  her  hope  dead  in 
her  breast,  so  many  sweet  phantoms  dead  in  her 
heart,  her  love  turned  to  fear  and  veneration. 

She  followed  him  to  the  chapel  which  they  call 
the  upper  church.  There,  opposite  the  three 
small  pointed  arches  inclosing  deep  shadows 
through  which  an  altar  looms,  and  where  a  silver 
cross  shines  against  the  dark  phantoms  of  ancient 
paintings,  Jeanne,  upon  a  sign  from  him,  knelt 


Face  to  Face  179 

on  the  prie-dieu  placed  on  the  right  side  of  the 
great  arch,  which  follows  the  line  of  the 
pointed  vault,  while  he  knelt  on  the  one  placed 
on  the  left.  On  the  drum  of  the  arch  a  four  - 
teenth  century  painter  had  depicted  the  Great 
Sorrow.  Through  a  high  window  on  the 
left,  the  light  fell  upon  the  Mother  of  Sor- 
rows—  the  Dolorosa;  Benedetto  was  in  the 
shadow. 

His  voice  murmured  in  a  scarcely  audible  tone : 

"  Still  without  faith?" 

Softly,  as  he  himself  had  spoken,  and  without 
turning  her  head,  she  answered : 

"Yes." 

He  was  silent  for  a  time,  then  he  continued,  in 
the  same  tone : 

"  Do  you  long  for  it?  Could  you  regulate  your 
actions  as  if  you  believed  in  God?  " 

"  Yes,  if  I  be  not  forced  to  lie." 

"  Will  you  promise  to  live  for  the  poor  and  the 
afflicted,  as  if  each  one  of  these  were  a  part  of  the 
soul  that  you  love  ?" 

Jeanne  did  not  answer.  She  was  too  far-seeing, 
too  honest  to  declare  that  she  could. 

"  Will  you  promise  this,"  Benedetto  continued, 
"  if  I  promise  to  call  you  to  my  side  at  a  certain 
hour  in  the  future?" 

She  did  not  know  of  what  solemn  and  not  far 
distant  hour  he  was  thinking,  as  he  spoke  thus. 
She  answered,  quivering: 

"Yes,  yes!" 


The  Saint 


"  In  that  hour  I  will  call  you,  "  said  the  voice 
out  of  the  shadow.  "But  until  I  call  you,  you 
must  never  seek  to  see  me  again." 

Jeanne  pressed  her  hands  to  her  eyes,  and 
answered  "No"  in  a  smothered  tone.  It  seemed 
to  her  she  was  whirling  in  the  vortex  of  such 
agonising  dreams  as  accompany  a  raging  fever. 
Piero  had  ceased  speaking.  Two  or  three  minutes 
slipped  by.  She  withdrew  her  hands  from  her 
tearful  eyes,  and  fixed  her  gaze  upon  the  cross, 
which  shone  there  in  front  of  her,  beyond  the 
pointed  arches,  against  the  dark  phantoms  of 
ancient  paintings.  She  murmured: 

"Do  you  know  that  Don  Giuseppe  Flores  is 
dead?" 

Silence. 

Jeanne  turned  her  head.  The  church  was 
empty. 


CHAPTER  V 
THE   SAINT 


THE  moon  had  already  set,  and  in  the  wind 
of  late  evening  the  Anio  discoursed,  now 
noisily,  now  softly,  as  one  who  in  animated  con- 
versation, from  time  to  time,  reminds  his  inter- 
locutor of  something  which  others  must  not  hear. 
Perhaps  the  only  person  who,  in  all  the  lovely 
shell  in  which  Subiaco  lies,  was  listening  to  this 
discourse,  was  Giovanni  Selva.  Seated  on  the 
terrace,  near  the  parapet,  on  which  he  rested  his 
elbows,  he  was  gazing  silently  into  the  sounding 
darkness.  Maria  and  Noemi,  who  had  also  come 
out  to  enjoy  the  freshness  and  the  wild  odours  of 
the  night  wind,  stood  at  a  little  distance.  Maria 
whispered  a  word  in  her  sister's  ear,  and  Noemi 
withdrew.  When  she  was  alone,  Maria  approached 
her  husband  very  softly,  and  dropped  a  kiss  upon 
his  hair. 

"Giovanni,"  said  she.  How  often,  oppressed 
by  the  intensity  of  her  love,  had  she  not  given  him 
her  soul,  her  whole  being,  in  that  one  word,  spoken 
under  her  breath,  all  others  seeming  to  her  in- 
adequate, or  worn  by  too  many  lips! 

181 


182  The  Saint 

Giovanni  answered  sadly,  wearily : 

"Maria." 

No  longer  feeling  her  face  on  his  hair  he  feared 
he  had  spoken  coldly  to  her. 

"Dearest!  "he  said. 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  placing  both 
hands  on  his  head,  began  caressing  it  slowly, 
saying : 

"  Blessed  are  they  who  suffer  for  Truth's  sake." 

He  turned  round,  smiling,  with  a  thrill  of 
affection.  Having  assured  himself  by  a  glance 
that  Noemi  was  no  longer  present,  he  raised  his 
arm  and  drew  the  dear  face  down  to  his  lips. 

"  I  need  you  so  much, "  he  said.  "  I  need  your 
strength!" 

"That  is  why  I  am  yours,"  Maria  answered. 
"I  am  strong  only  because  you  love  me." 

He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it  reverently. 

"  Do  you  understand?"  he  presently  exclaimed, 
raising  his  head.  "Perhaps  you  do  not  know 
how  deep  my  suffering  really  is,  for  it  is  a  dark 
point  even  to  me,  who  am  old,,  and  yet  do  not 
know  myself.  I  was  thinking  of  this  just  now. 
I  reflected  that  when  we  suffer  from  a  wound  the 
cause  of  our  suffering  is  visible,  but  when  we 
suffer  from  a  fever  the  cause  is  hidden,  as  in  this 
case,  and  we  never  succeed  in  becoming  thor- 
oughly acquainted  with  it." 

A  month  had  not  yet  elapsed  since  the  meeting 
at  which  a  league  among  progressive  Catholics 
had  been  talked  of.  No  league  had  sprung 


The  Saint  183 

from  it,  but  to  nothing  else  could  the  origin  of  a 
series  of  strange  and  unpleasant  events  be  attri- 
buted. Professor  Dane  had  been  recalled  to 
Ireland  by  his  Archbishop.  He  had  immediately 
called  upon  an  English  Cardinal  attached  to  the 
Papal  Court,  in  order  to  acquaint  him  with  the 
unsatisfactory  condition  of  his  health,  and  to 
solicit  his  support  of  a  petition  to  the  Archbishop 
for  an  extension  of  his  leave.  His  Eminence  had 
opened  Dane's  eyes.  The  blow  had  come  from 
Rome,  where  he  was  looked  upon  with  the  greatest 
disapproval.  Only  out  of  consideration  for  the 
Cardinal  himself,  who  was  known  to  be  his  friend, 
and  above  all  out  of  consideration  for  the  English 
Government,  had  the  authorities  refrained  from 
satisfying  those  who  wished  to  see  his  writings 
placed  on  the  Index,  and  Dane  himself  constrained 
to  resign  his  professorship.  The  Cardinal  advised 
him  to  leave  Rome,  where  the  heat  was  beginning 
to  be  unpleasant,  and  to  become  a  little  more 
seriously  ill  at  Montecatini  or  Salsomaggiore, 
where  he  would  be  left  in  peace.  Don  Clemente 
had  not  again  appeared.  Giovanni  had  sought 
him  out  at  Santa  Scolastica,  where  the  monk  had 
signified  to  him,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  that  their 
friendship  must  be  buried  like  a  treasure  in  times 
of  war.  Upon  Don  Paolo  Fare",  who  had  been 
giving  a  course  of  religious  instruction  for  adults 
at  Pavia,  silence  had  been  enjoined.  Young 
di  Leyni  had  been  reached  through  his  family. 
His  excellent  and  pious  mother  had  besought 


1 84  The  Saint 

him  with  tears  and  in  the  name  of  his  dead  tatner, 
to  break  with  those  dangerous  acquaintances, 
the  Selvas ;  and  he  believed  that  this  step  had  been 
suggested  by  her  confessor.  He  had  resisted, 
but  at  the  cost  of  his  domestic  peace.  Finally, 
a  clerical  periodical  had  published  three  articles 
on  Giovanni's  complete  works,  summing  up  some 
partial  and  grudging  praise,  and  some  equally 
partial  and  biting  censure  in  a  very  severe  judg- 
ment on  the  character  of  the  works  themselves, 
which  the  critic  pronounced  rationalistic,  and  on 
the  intolerable  audacity  of  the  author,  who, 
equipped  solely  with  worldly  learning,  had  dared 
to  publish  writings  in  which  the  lack  of  theological 
knowledge  was  painfully  evident.  In  substance 
these  three  articles  were  a  terrible  and  prohibitive 
condemnation  of  the  very  book  Giovanni  was  then 
engaged  upon,  dealing  with  the  rational  founda- 
tions of  Christian  morality,  and,  in  the  opinion 
of  the  initiated,  it  predicted  the  Index  for  his 
other  works. 

"  Are  you  in  doubt  concerning  your  own  views  ?  " 
Maria  asked. 

The  question  was  insincere.  Notwithstanding 
her  great  love  for  him,  she  had  a  deep  and  clear 
knowledge  of  her  husband's  soul.  She  believed 
he  was,  in  his  heart,  suffering  from  the  presenti- 
ment of  an  ecclesiastical  condemnation.  Giovanni 
might  speak  lightly  of  certain  sentences  passed 
by  the  Congregation  of  the  Index,  but  his  con- 
science, more  respectful  towards  the  authorities 


The  Saint  185 

than  he  himself  realised,  was  troubled,  so  Maria 
thought,  more  deeply  than  he  wished  it  to  be  by 
the  threatened  blow.  And  Maria,  fearing  to  wound 
him  by  the  question,  "Are  you  afraid?"  had 
insinuated  this  other  doubt,  in  order  to  prepare 
the  way  for  a  spontaneous  confession  of  the  truth. 
Giovanni's  answer  astonished  her. 

"Yes, "  said  he.  " I  doubt  myself.  Not,  how- 
ever, in  the  way  you  suppose.  I  fear  I  am  a 
purely  intellectual  being,  and  that  I  exaggerate 
the  importance  my  views  may  have  in  the  sight 
of  God.  I  fear  I  do  not  live  up  to  my  views. 
I  fear  my  indignation  is  too  great  against  those 
who  do  not  share  them,  against  my  persecutors, 
against  that  Swiss  Abbe  who  came  here  with  Dane, 
and  probably  talked  of  what  was  then  said  in  our 
midst  as  he  should  not  have  done,  and  in  places 
where  he  should  have  kept  silent.  I  fear  my 
life  is  one  of  too  great  inactivity,  of  too  great 
ease,  of  too  much  pleasure,  for  to  me  study  is  a 
delight.  I  even  doubt  my  love  of  God,  because 
I  feel  too  lightly  the  love  of  my  neighbour.  I  am 
often  reminded  that  the  mystic  pleasures  may 
lull  my  conscience  on  this  point.  You,  Maria,  you 
live  your  faith;  you  visit  the  sick,  work  for  the 
poor,  you  comfort,  you  instruct.  I  do  nothing." 

"  I  am  one  with  you, "  Maria  whispered.  "  You 
made  me  what  I  am.  Besides,  you  distribute  the 
alms  of  the  intellect." 

"No,  no!  Those  words  applied  to  me  are 
presumptuous!" 


1 86  The  Saint 

Maria  knew  that  the  loving  sense  of  human 
fraternity  was  not  strong  in  Giovanni.  She  felt — 
and  she  was  loath  to  confess  it  even  to  herself— 
that  this  deficiency  incapacitated  her  husband 
for  the  successful  fulfilment  of  that  great  religious 
apostolate  which  should  have  resulted  from  his 
intellectual  powers,  and  that  deep  and  enlightened 
faith,  which  in  him  was  more  the  fruit  of  genius, 
of  study,  of  love  of  the  divine,  than  of  tradition 
or  habit.  She  reproached  herself  for  having 
sometimes  rejoiced  at  Giovanni's  coldness  towards 
his  fellows,  for  it  lent  a  precious  flavour  to  the 
treasures  of  affection  he  lavished  upon  herself. 
Nevertheless  he  was  conscious  of  the  fraternal 
obligations,  and  she  had  never  known  him  turn  a 
deaf  ear  to  an  appeal,  or  seen  him  insensible  to 
the  grief  of  others.  He  did  not  feel,  and  therefore 
did  not  love  God  in  man,  which  is  the  most  sublime 
flame  of  charity;  he  felt  and  loved  man  in  God, 
which  is  a  cold  love,  as  would  be  the  love  of  one 
who  was  kind  to  his  brother  solely  to  please  their 
father.  But  this  last  is  the  temper  common  to 
even  the  best  of  human  hearts.  Giovanni's  heart 
was  tempered  thus;  he  could  not  give  out  that 
sublime  charity  of  which  he  humbly  and  sadly 
acknowledged  himself  to  be  void.  Maria,  caress- 
ing his  hair  with  infinite  tenderness,  dreamed  that 
sweet,  divine,  indulgence  flowed  out  upon  that 
head  through  her  heart  and  her  hands. 

"Listen,"  said  she.     "I  am  going  to  propose 
to  you  at  once  an  act  of  charity  in  which  there  is 


The  Saint  187 

much  merit.  Noemi  has  received  a  letter  from 
her  friend  Jeanne  Dessalle,  and  says  she  is  in  need 
of  your  help." 

"Call  her,"  said  he. 

Noemi  came.  A  slight  cloud  had  gathered 
that  day  between  Giovanni  and  herself.  As 
rarely  happened,  they  had  conversed  on  religion. 
Noemi  clung  blindly  to  her  own  religion,  and 
disliked  discussions.  Notwithstanding  her  tender- 
ness for  Maria,  and  her  affectionate  respect  for 
Giovanni,  she  feared  she  should  lean  more  towards 
the  scepticism  of  Jeanne  than  towards  the  liberal 
and  progressive  Catholicism  of  the  Selvas,  if  she 
stopped  to  examine  the  reasons  and  nature  of  her 
own  belief.  This  Catholicism  appeared  to  her 
a  hybrid  thing,  and  she  had  perhaps  learned  from 
Jeanne  to  consider  it  such ;  for  Jeanne,  in  moments 
of  nervous  irritability,  defended  her  own  scepticism 
with  acrimony  against  that  faith  which,  because 
it  shone  with  spirituality  and  truth,  might  prove 
formidable  to  her.  Noemi  was  always  suspicious, 
not  of  her  sister,  but  of  Giovanni,  fearing  he  would 
attempt  to  convert  her,  and  her  suspicion  had  that 
day  been  apparent  when,  discussing  the  confes- 
sional, she  had  several  times  answered  him 
very  sharply.  Then  Giovanni  had  reminded  her, 
gently  and  gravely,  that  error  harboured  uncon- 
sciously, in  the  sincere  and  pure  desire  of  truth, 
is  innocent  in  the  eyes  of  God,  but  that  if  a  senti- 
ment foreign  to  that  desire  have  any  part  in  the 
repulsion  of  truth,  then  sin  alone  is  the  outcome. 


1 88  The  Saint 

This  argument  wounded  Noemi  more  deeply 
still.  She  had  been  on  the  point  of  asking  her 
brother-in-law  by  what  right  he  was  acting  as 
vice-divine  judge.  She  controlled  herself,  how- 
ever, and  let  the  discussion  drop. 

Upon  thinking  it  over  afterwards,  she  regretted 
her  sullen  silence,  not  so  much  because  Giovanni's 
words  had  affected  her  views,  as  because  she  was 
aware  of  the  sorrow  the  religious  opinions  he 
professed  brought  him,  and  because  she  saw  how 
depressed  his  spirits  were.  This  was  one  reason 
why — when  she  was  called  to  him,  and  entreated 
by  her  sister  to  show  him  much  affection — 
she  resolved,  for  once,  to  be  unfaithful  to  Jeanne. 
Of  what  Jeanne  had  written  to  her  under  the 
seal  of  secrecy  she  had  told  Maria  only  as 
much  as  was  absolutely  necessary.  Jeanne,  still 
suffering  both  physically  and  mentally,  had 
heard  of  the  "Saint  of  Jenne,"  who  was  healing 
bodies  and  souls,  and  she  besought  Noemi  to  go 
to  Jenne  and  see  this  Saint,  and  then  to  write  to 
her  about  him.  Now  Noemi  could  not  go  to 
Jenne  alone,  she  must  ask  Giovanni  to  accompany 
her.  Her  first  confidence  had  stopped  here. 
Now  she  broke  all  the  seals  of  secrecy  her  friend 
had  imposed,  and  spoke  freely. 

Poor  Jeanne  Dessalle  was  more  unhappy  than 
ever.  During  her  short  visit  at  Subiaco  she 
had  met  her  former  lover.  An  exclamation  from 
Giovanni!  Then  it  was  Don  Clemente,  after  all  ? 
No,  it  was  the  man  who  came  to  the  villa  with  the 


The  Saint  189 

Padre  the  night  of  Jeanne's  arrival,  the  under- 
gardener  from  Santa  Scolastica — he  who  was  no 
longer  at  the  monastery — of  whom  all  the  valley 
of  the  Anio  was  talking,  and  who  was  known, 
even  at  Rome,  as  the  "Saint  of  Jenne."  Noemi 
begged  them  to  forgive  her  for  not  having  told 
them  at  the  time.  Woe  to  her  if  Jeanne  had 
discovered  her  breach  of  confidence,  after  her 
many  admonitions.  Besides  it  would  have  done 
no  good.  Giovanni  took  his  wife's  hand  almost 
stealthily,  and  raised  it  to  his  lips,  Maria  under- 
stood, and  smiled.  Then  both  assailed  Noemi 
with  questions. 

Yes,  Jeanne  had  recognised  him  the  night  of 
their  arrival,  and  now  Maria  and  Giovanni  could 
understand  the  reason  of  the  faintness  she  had 
experienced.  Their  meeting  had  taken  place 
the  following  day  at  Sacro  Speco.  Concerning 
the  meeting  Noemi  knew  only  this  much,  that 
Jeanne's  hopes  had  been  dashed  to  the  ground, 
that  he  was  clad  as  a  monk,  and  had  spoken  as 
one  who  has  given  himself  to  God  for  ever;  that 
she  had  promised  him  to  dedicate  her  life  to  good 
works,  and  that  no  direct  correspondence  between 
them  was  any  longer  possible. 

Jeanne  now  wrote  from  Villa  Diedo,  the  home 
in  the  Veneto  where  she  had  gone  with  her 
brother  from  Rome,  two  days  after  leaving 
Subiaco.  She  wrote  in  a  moment  of  most  bitter 
despondency.  Her  brother,  surprised  at  her  de- 
voting so  much  time  to  the  poor,  was  irritated 


The  Saint 

by  this  innovation  in  her  mode  of  thought  and  of 
life.  She  might  give  money,  if  she  pleased,  and 
as  much  as  she  pleased,  but  to  bring  a  string  of 
beggars  into  the  house,  to  visit  them  in  their 
hovels,  that  he  would  not  allow!  It  was  foolish, 
it  was  a  bore,  it  was  ridiculous,  it  was  eccentric, 
it  was  clerical.  There  were  other  difficulties. 
She  would  have  liked  to  join  the  women's  char- 
itable associations  of  the  town,  but  they  drew 
back,  shrinking  into  themselves  like  sensitive 
plants  at  the  touch  of  this  woman,  who  had  been 
the  subject  of  so  much  gossip  on  account  of 
Maironi,  and  who,  though  she  did  sometimes  go 
to  church  of  a  Sunday,  did  not  fulfil  her  Easter 
duties.  And  finally  her  habits,  which  were  those 
of  a  woman  of  leisure,  were  reforming  their  ranks 
after  the  first  defeat,  and  delaying  her  progress 
on  the  new  road,  ever  more  successfully  as  the 
road  became  more  difficult.  She  felt  she  must 
succumb  if  no  word  of  counsel  reached  her,  no 
help  from  him.  She  could  not  see  him,  she  dared 
not  write,  for  certainly  he  had  intended  to  forbid 
that  also ;  and  she  would  rather  die  than  do  any- 
thing to  displease  him,  if  she  could  avoid  it.  She 
had  read  an  article  in  the  CorrUre  on  the  "  Saint 
of  Jenne, "  in  which  it  was  stated  that  the  Saint 
was  young,  and  had  been  a  day-labourer  in  the 
kitchen-garden  at  Santa  Scolastica.  Therefore 
it  must  be  he!  She  entreated  Noemi  to  go  to 
Jenne,  and  beg  a  word  of  comfort  for  her,  for  the 
sake  of  charity  I 


The  Saint  19* 

Noemi  was  determined  to  go.  Would  Giovanni 
accompany  her?  In  the  humble  tone  in  which 
she  asked  this  favour,  Giovanni  heard  a  tacit 
petition  for  forgiveness  and  peace;  he  held  out 
his  hand: 

"With  all  my  heart, "  he  said. 

Maria  offered  to  join  them,  and  they  decided  to 
go  the  following  morning,  starting  on  foot,  at  five 
o  'clock,  in  order  to  avoid  the  blazing  sun  on  the 
slope  of  Jenne.  Then  they  spoke  of  the  Saint. 

The  whole  valley  was  talking  about  him.  The 
article  Jeanne  had  seen  said  that  a  great  number 
of  people  were  flocking  to  Jenne  to  see  and  hear 
the  Saint ;  that  miraculous  cures  were  being 
announced  as  his  work;  that  the  Benedictines 
told  with  admiration  of  the  life  of  penance  and 
of  prayer  he  had  led  for  three  years  at  Santa 
Scolastica,  working  in  the  garden.  At  Subiaco 
still  more  wonderful  reports  were  circulating. 
A  certain  forester  called  Torquato,  a  most  worthy 
man  and  a  relative  of  the  Selvas'  servant,  told 
her  he  had  been  to  Jenne  with  a  stranger,  a  sort 
of  poet,  who  had  come  all  the  way  from  Rome 
to  talk  with  the  Saint.  On  the  way  there  and 
back,  they  had  met  perhaps  fifty  people — real 
ladies  and  gentlemen  they  were,  too;  and  on  the 
hillside  of  Jenne  they  had  met  a  procession  of 
women  singing  the  litanies.  At  Jenne  he  had 
heard  the  whole  story.  One  night  the  parish 
priest  had  dreamed  that  a  globe  of  fire  rested  on 
the  great  cross  planted  on  the  summit  of  the  hill; 


192  The  Saint 

this  blazing  globe  had  set  the  cross  itself  on  fire, 
and  it  was  burning  and  glowing  without  being 
consumed,  while  all  the  mountains  and  the  valley 
were  illumined  by  it.  The  next  day  there  had 
appeared  before  him  a  young  man,  in  the  habit  of 
a  Benedictine  lay -brother,  who  was  the  bearer  of 
a  letter  to  him.  This  letter  was  from  the  Abbot 
of  Santa  Scolastica,  and  said:  "I  send  you  an 
angel  whose  fire  burns  clear,  through  whom  Jenne 
will  become  renowned  throughout  the  universe!" 
It  was  also  written  that  this  young  man  was,  by 
birth,  a  mighty  prince,  of  royal  blood,  but  that 
in  order  to  serve  God,  in  all  humility  he  had 
laboured  as  kitchen-gardener  at  Santa  Scolastica 
for  three  years.  The  parish  priest  had  gone 
half  crazy  from  the  emotion  caused  by  the  fire 
seen  in  his  dream,  and  the  fire  that  had  come  to 
him,  and  had  been  seized  by  a  raging  fever.  The 
next  day  was  a  festa — a  holy-day — and  of  the 
two  other  priests  who  live  at  Jenne,  one  was  ill, 
and  the  other  had  gone  to  Filettino  two  days 
before  to  see  his  sick  mother.  In  the  village  the 
priest's  servant  had  told  all  about  this  Benedictine, 
all  about  the  dream,  had  told,  in  fact,  the  whole 
story.  The  villagers  flocked  to  church,  to  hear 
the  Benedictine  say  Mass;  for  they  had  seen 
him  enter,  and  would  not  believe  he  was  not 
going  to  officiate.  They  demanded  that  he 
should  preach,  at  least,  although  he  assured  them 
he  had  no  right  to  preach  in  church ;  and,  keeping 
him  in  their  midst,  they  pressed  him  so  hard,  that 


The  Saint  193 

he  finally  signed  to  them  with  his  hand  to  leave 
the  church,  promising  those  nearest  him  to  speak 
outside.  And  he  had  spoken  outside!  What  he 
had  really  said  the  servant  could  not  tell  Maria, 
nor  could  Maria  herself  gather  much  from  Tor- 
quatof;  but  by  dint  of  much  questioning,  and 
with  the  aid  of  her  own  imagination,  she  suc- 
ceeded in  reconstructing  his  discourse  somewhat 
as  follows: 

Are  you  fit  to  enter  the  church?  Are  you  at 
peace  with  your  neighbour?  Do  you  know  what 
the  Lord  Jesus  means,  when  He  says  to  you  that  no 
man  may  approach  the  altar  if  he  be  not  at  peace 
with  his  neighbour?  Do  you  know  that  you  may 
not  enter  the  church  if  you  have  sinned  against 
charity  or  justice,  and  have  not  made  amends, 
or  have  not  repented  when  it  was  impossible 
to  make  amends?  Do  you  know  that  you  may 
not  enter  the  church,  not  only  if  you  bear  ill-will 
against  your  neighbour,  but  also  if  you  have 
injured  him  in  any  manner  whatsoever,  either 
in  your  dealings  with  him,  or  in  his  honour,  if 
you  have  slandered  him,  or  harbour  in  your  heart 
wicked  desires  against  his  body  or  his  soul?  Do 
you  know  that  all  the  Masses,  all  the  Benedictions, 
all  the  Rosaries,  and  all  the  Litanies,  count  for 
less  than  nothing,  if  you  do  not  first  purify  your 
hearts,  according  to  the  word  of  Jesus?  Are 
you  unclean  with  hatred,  or  with  any  impurity 
whatsoever?  Then  go!  Jesus  will  not  have  you 
in  the  church! 


194  The  Saint 

"Ma  eke!"  said  Torquato,  "The  discourse 
was  nothing,  it  was  the  face,  the  voice,  the  eyes!" 

The  worthy  man  spoke  as  if  he  himself  had 
been  present,  telling  how  the  crowd  had  thrown 
themselves  upon  their  knees  and  wept,  and  how 
certain  women,  who  were  enemies,  had  embraced 
each  other.  In  fact  there  had  been  only  women 
and  old  men  present,  for  the  men  of  Jenne  are  all 
shepherds  at  Nettuno  and  Anzio,  and  do  not  re- 
turn to  the  hills  before  the  end  of  June.  The  Saint 
seeing  them  so  penitent,  had  said:  "Enter  and 
kneel.  God  is  within  you.  Worship  Him  in 
silence."  Then  the  crowd  had  entered,  a  perfect 
multitude!  They  had  fallen  upon  their  knees, 
all  of  them,  and  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour —  accord- 
ing to  Torquato — you  could  have  heard  a  fly 
winging  in  the  great  church.  The  Saint  had  then 
intoned  the  "Our  Father"  in  a  loud  voice,  and, 
the  crowd  lifting  their  voices  and  joining  in,  he 
had  gone  through  it,  stopping  at  each  verse. 
Torquato  told  how  the  parish  priest,  having  heard 
all  this,  kissed  his  guest,  and  as  he  kissed  him  he 
was  cured  of  his  fever!  Then  the  people  came 
to  the  canonica — the  priest's  house — bringing 
the  sick,  that  the  Saint  might  bless  and  heal 
them.  He  would  not  do  this,  but  all  those  who 
succeeded  in  touching  his  habit,  even  by  stealth 
were  healed.  And  many  had  come  to  him  for 
advice.  Then  there  had  been  a  great  miracle 
concerning  a  mule,  which  turned  ugly  on  the 
iteep  path  down  the  slope,  and  which  was  about 


The  Saint  195 

to  throw  its  rider  upon  the  rocks.  The  Saint, 
who  was  present,  being  on  his  way  up  from  the 
Infernillo  with  water,  had  stretched  out  his  hand, 
and  the  mule  had  become  quiet  on  the  instant! 

Maria  told  the  story  as  she  had  heard  it  from 
the  forester. 

"  I  wonder  if  it  is  all  as  true  as  the  part  about 
the  prince  of  royal  blood!"  said  Noemi. 

"To-morrow  we  shall  know,"  Giovanni  an- 
swered, rising. 

II 

They  started  at  about  six  o'clock;  the  sky  was 
cloudy ;  and  a  cool  breeze  was  blowing,  fragrant 
with  the  odours  of  the  woods  and  the  hills,  alive 
with  the  tiny,  gay  voices  of  birds,  purifying  to  the 
soul  itself.  At  the  Baths  of  Nero  they  took  the 
mule-path  which  leads  into  the  narrow,  green  ra- 
vine, winding  upwards  on  the  right  of  the  Anio. 
High  up  on  the  left  they  saw  Santa  Scolastica,  the 
Sacro  Speco,  and  the  House  of  the  Blessed  Law- 
rence, all  white  below  the  rocks,  which  are  the 
colour  of  iron.  They  left  the  bridge  of  the  Scalilla 
on  the  right — only  a  log,  thrown  across  to  the 
wild  left  bank  of  the  turbulent  little  torrent. 
On  the  way  they  talked  much  of  the  strange 
Saint.  Giovanni  wondered  that  Don  Clemente 
had  never  in  the  past  told  him  anything  of  the 
character  of  this  under-gardener.  He  approved 
of  the  little  sermon  in  the  open  air.  He  had  once 
mentioned  the  subject  of  it  to  Don  Clemente, 


The  Saint 


pointing  out  to  him  that  those  words  of  Christ 
are  neither  properly  observed,  nor  taught;  even 
the  best  of  Christians  apply  them  only  to  the  use 
of  the  sacraments.  If  the  faithful  realised  that 
they  must  not  enter  the  church,  bringing  an  im- 
pure heart,  the  Christian  peoples  would  indeed  be- 
come examples  to  the  world,  and  no  one  would 
then  dare  affirm  that  morality  is  much  the  same 
everywhere,  and  has  nothing  to  do  with  religious 
beliefs. 

He  also  highly  approved  of  thus  reciting  "  Our 
Father"  in  church,  but  he  did  not  approve  of  the 
miracles.  He  suspected  weakness  in  a  man  who 
did  not  know  how  to  break  resolutely  with  popular 
superstition  when  it  was  flattering  to  himself. 

What  could  Noemi  say  about  this  man's  char- 
acter? What  opinion  had  she  formed  of  him  from 
Jeanne's  confidences?  Noemi  was  embarrassed. 
All  that  Jeanne  had  told  her  about  him  convinced 
her  that  Maironi  had  behaved  very  badly  to  her 
friend,  that  he  had  never  really  loved  her  and  at 
the  same  time  awoke  in  Noemi  an  intellectual 
curiosity,  which,  though  she  struggled  against 
it,  was  always  returning  —  a  curiosity  to  know 
if  that  man  would  have  loved  her  better  than 
Jeanne.  She  replied  that  Maironi's  character 
was  an  enigma  to  her.  And  his  intellect?  His 
culture?  She  could  say  nothing  concerning  either 
his  intellect  or  his  culture,  but  if  such  a  woman 
as  Jeanne  Dessalle  had  loved  him  so  devotedly, 
he  must  certainly  be  both  intelligent  and  cultured. 


The  Saint  197 

And  his  former  religious  views?  To  this  last 
question  Noemi's  answer  was  that  from  some 
facts  Jeanne  had  mentioned,  from  the  decisive 
influence  which  the  religious  traditions  of  his  fam- 
ily had  had  upon  him  at  a  crisis  in  their  love, 
she  judged  him  to  have  been  a  Catholic  of  the  old 
school,  not  a  Catholic  like — Here  Noemi  broke  off 
blushing  and  smiling.  Giovanni  smiled  also,  but 
Maria  looked  slightly  annoyed.  The  subject  was 
at  once  dropped. 

They  proceeded  for  some  time  in  silence,  ex- 
changing only  now  and  then  a  word  of  greeting 
with  some  mountaineer  on  his  way  down  to  the 
mills  at  Subiaco,  mounted  on  his  mule,  laden 
with  grain. 

They  stopped  to  rest  in  the  field  of  San 
Giovanni,  which  divides  the  territory  of  Subiaco 
from  that  of  Jenne.  The  Blessed  Lawrence,  now 
left  far  behind,  all  white  under  the  rocks  which 
are  the  colour  of  iron,  looked  down  upon  them 
from  on  high.  Rays  of  sunshine,  breaking  through 
the  clouds,  gilded  the  hills,  and  the  little  party, 
remembering  the  arid  hillside  of  Jenne,  had  just 
started  forward  again,  when  they  met  the  doctor 
from  Jenne,  who  recognised  Maria,  having  seen 
her  some  time  before  at  the  house  of  his  colleague 
at  Subiaco.  He  bowed,  and  smiling,  reined  in  his 
mule. 

"You  are  on  the  way  to  Jenne?  Are  you  going 
to  see  the  Saint?  You  will  find  many  people 
there  to-day." 


198  The  Saint 

Many  people!  This  was  disappointing  to 
Noemi,  who  feared  she  would  not  be  able  to  speak 
quietly  with  Maironi.  The  Selvas  were  curious 
to  know  all  about  it.  Why  so  many  people? 
Because  they  want  the  Saint  at  Filettino,  they 
want  him  at  Vallepietra,  they  want  him  at  Trevi, 
and  the  women  of  Jenne  intend  to  keep  him  for 
themselves. 

"And  all  to  give  me  a  rest!"  the  doctor  added. 
"And  to  give  the  chemist  a  rest  also,  for  now 
the  Benedictine  is  the  doctor,  and  his  tunic  is  the 
chemist!" 

He  told  them  that  to-day  people  were  coming 
from  Filettino,  from  Vallepietra,  and  from  Trevi, 
to  treat  with  Jenne  concerning  some  means  of 
dividing  the  Saint  among  all  those  towns.  "  Who 
knows  but  what  they  may  come  to  blows!"  At 
any  rate  the  carabinieri  were  already  stationed 
at  Jenne. 

"You  call  him  'the  Saint'  also?"  said  Maria. 

"Oh,  yes!"  the  doctor  answered,  laughing. 
"They  all  call  him  that,  all  save  those  who  call 
him  'the  Devil, '  for  at  Jenne  some  do  so  already!" 

How  astonishing!  This  was  news  to  them! 
Who  called  him  "the  Devil,"  and  why? 

"Ah!"  and  the  doctor  put  on  the  knowing  look 
of  one  who  is  well  informed,  but  does  not  intend 
to  tell  all  he  knows.  "Well,"  said  he,  "there 
are  two  priests  from  Rome  staying  at  Jenne  for 

a  holiday,  two  priests,  two  priests !  They 

are  very  clever!  They  have  not  told  me  what 


The  Saint  199 

they  think  of  the  Saint,  but,  at  any  rate,  the 
parish  priest's  ardour  has  cooled  considerably, 
and  it  has  been  the  same  with  others.  Those 
priests  are  workers.  You  do  not  see  it,  but  they 
are  at  work  all  the  time.  They  are  insects — I 
say  it  without  intending  to  speak  ill  of  them, 
indeed  in  this  case  their  action  may  even  be 
praiseworthy!  They  are  insects,  which,  when 
they  wish  to  kill  a  plant,  do  not  touch  the  fruit, 
the  flowers,  the  leaves,  or  the  roots  I  may  even 
say,  for  there  a  poisonous  draught  might  reach 
them,  or  a  spade  reveal  their  presence,  and  they 
do  not  wish  to  be  reached,  do  not  wish  to  be  seen. 
They  bore  into  the  marrow.  These  two  have 
already  reached  the  marrow.  Perhaps  it  may 
not  be  for  a  month,  perhaps  not  for  two  months ; 
but  the  plant  is  doomed  to  wither,  and  wither 
it  must!" 

"But  what  do  you  yourself  think  about  it?" 
Maria  inquired.  "Does  this  man  really  pretend 
to  be  a  saint?  Is  he  pleased  that  these  supersti- 
tious people  quarrel  about  him  in  this  way? 
Is  it  true  he  has  healed  the  sick?" 

The  doctor  continued  to  laugh  while  she  was 
speaking. 

"I  laugh,"  he  answered.  "It  is  a  case  of 
contagious,  mystic  psychopathy!  But  you  must 
excuse  me  now,  for  I  am  due  at  Subiaco  at  eight 
o'clock.  I  hope  you  will  enjoy  yourselves. 
May  your  visit  divert  you." 

With  this  malicious  thrust,  he  shook  the  reins 


200  The  Saint 

on  the  mule's  neck,  and  rode  on,  fearing  he  might 
be  obliged  to  give  proofs  of  what  he  asserted. 

Noemi,  who  was  the  most  agitated  of  the  party 
at  the  prospect  of  seeing  the  man  Jeanne  loved, 
began  to  feel  weary.  They  halted  a  second  time 
at  the  foot  of  the  slope  of  Jenne,  on  the  gravel 
across  which  shallow  rivulets  streak,  flowing 
down  to  the  river  from  the  grotto  of  the  Infernillo. 
Someone  was  approaching  them  from  behind. 
What  a  surprise!  What  a  pleasure!  Don  Cle- 
mente!  The  Padre's  fine  face  lit  up  also.  He 
loved  and  respected  Giovanni  for  a  true  Christian, 
and  sometimes  had  to  struggle  against  the  tempta- 
tion to  judge  his  superior,  the  Abbot,  who  had 
forbidden  him  to  visit  Giovanni,  to  struggle  against 
the  temptation  to  appeal  to  Someone  greater 
than  abbots,  greater  than  pontiffs,  in  his  own 
soul.  This  Someone  was  saying  to  him  now: 
"The  meeting  is  My  gift!"  and  so  the  monk 
joined  his  friends  joyfully.  Maria  presented 
him  to  Noemi,  and  he  blushed  again  on  recognis- 
ing the  woman  he  had  mistaken  for  Benedetto's 
temptress. 

"And  your  friend?"  he  inquired,  trembling 
lest  he  be  informed  of  her  presence  there.  Upon 
being  reassured  a  look  of  relief  flashed  across  his 
face.  Noemi  smiled  at  this,  and  he,  noticing 
her  smile,  was  greatly  embarrassed.  The  others 
smiled  also,  but  no  one  spoke.  Giovanni  was  the 
first  to  break  the  silence.  Surely  Don  Clemente 
was,  like  themselves,  on  his  way  to  Jenne  ?  Perhaps 


The  Saint  201 

he  was  going  there  for  the  same  purpose,  to  see 
the  same  person,  the  gardener,  eh?  the  gardener 
of  that  famous  evening?  Ah!  Don  Clemente, 
Don  Clemente!  Yes,  Don  Clemente  was  also 
going  to  Jenne,  was  going  to  see  Benedetto.  And 
as  to  the  gardener,  there  had  been  no  deception, 
only  a  desire  to  bring  the  two  souls  together  in 
the  most  natural  way,  without  violence,  without 
recommendations  and  previous  explanations. 

They  started  up  the  hill  together,  talking  of 
Benedetto. 

Noemi,  forgetting  her  weariness,  hung  upon  the 
Padre's  lips,  and  the  Padre,  precisely  on  this 
account,  said  so  little  and  was  so  circumspect 
that  she  trembled  with  impatience,  and  presently 
felt  tired  again.  She  took  Maria's  arm,  and 
allowed  Don  Clemente  to  go  on  with  her  brother- 
in-law.  Then  Don  Clemente  confided  to  Giovanni 
that  his  mission  at  Jenne  was  of  a  painful  nature. 
It  seemed  some  one  at  Jenne  had  written  to  Rome, 
speaking  in  hostile  language  of  Benedetto,  accusing 
him  of  preaching  what  was  not  perfectly  orthodox, 
of  pretending  to  be  a  miracle  worker,  and  of 
wearing  a  religious  habit  to  which  he  had  no 
right:  this  greatly  enhancing  the  gravity  of  the 
scandal.  Certainly  they  had  written  to  the  Abbot 
from  Rome,  for  he  had  ordered  Don  Clemente 
to  go  to  Jenne,  and  demand  of  Benedetto  the 
restitution  of  the  habit.  Don  Clemente  had  tried 
in  vain  to  dissuade  the  old  abbot,  who  had  waved 
the  matter  aside  with  a  jest.  "Read  the  Gospel — 


r202  The  Saint 

the  Passion  according  to  St.  Mark.  He  who  fol- 
lows Christ  after  all  others  have  forsaken  Him 
must  part  with  his  cloak.  It  is  a  mark  of  holiness." 
Therefore,  as  some  one  must  carry  this  message 
to  Jenne,  Don  Clemente  preferred  to  do  it  himself. 
He  had,  moreover,  received  a  strange  letter  from 
the  parish  priest  of  Jenne.  This  priest,  a  good 
man,  but  timid,  had  written  that  Benedetto  was, 
to  his  mind,  a  most  pious  Christian,  but  that  he 
talked  too  much  of  religion  to  the  people,  and  that 
his  discourses  sometimes  had  a  flavour  of  quiet- 
ism and  of  rationalism,  that  there  were  those  who 
accused  him  of  employing  a  demoniacal  power  for 
^the  furtherance  of  his  not  over-orthodox  views, 
that  this  accusation  was  certainly  false,  but  that, 
nevertheless,  prudence  forbade  the  writer  to 
keep  Benedetto  with  him  any  longer.  Perhaps 
the  wisest  course  for  him  would  be  to  retire  to 
some  town  where  he  was  not  known,  and  to  live 
quietly  there. 

Their  conversation  was  here  interrupted  by  a 
call  from  Maria.  Noemi,  overpowered  by  the 
heat  of  the  burning  sun,  and  seized  with  palpita- 
tions, must  rest  again.  The  sisters  had  seated 
themselves  in  the  shadow  of  a  rock. 

Don  Clemente  took  leave  of  them.  They 
would  meet  later  at  Jenne.  Maria  was  greatly 
distressed  about  her  sister,  and  secretly  reproached 
herself  for  having  allowed  her  to  come  on  foot. 
She  and  Giovanni  stood  silently  watching  Noemi, 
who,  though  very  pale;  smiled  at  them  bravely. 


The  Saint  203 

Upon  that  wilderness  of  mountains,  devoid  of 
beauty,  upon  those  sun-baked  rocks,  the  silence 
hung  with  a  mortal  weight!  It  was  a  relief  to  all 
three  to  hear  the  voices  of  some  wayfarers  who 
were  coming  up.  There  were  six  or  seven  in  the 
party,  and  they  had  two  mules  with  them.  As 
they  toiled  upwards  they  sang  the  Rosary.  When 
the  procession  had  drawn  nearer,  a  girl  and  a 
man  could  be  seen  riding  the  mules;  both  were 
emaciated  and  almost  cadaverous  in  appearance. 
The  girl  opened  her  eyes  wide  on  perceiving  the 
Selvas,  but  the  man  kept  his  closed.  The  others 
looked  at  them  with  a  rapt  expression,  continuing 
their  prayers.  The  monotonous  chant  and  the 
beat  of  the  mule's  hoofs  grew  fainter,  and  at  last 
died  away  among  the  heights  above.  Soon  after 
this  sad  procession  had  passed,  a  party  of  young 
men  from  the  city  appeared,  laughing  merrily, 
and  talking  of  Quirites  who  were  on  the  lookout 
rather  for  Sabine  women  than  for  saints.  On 
perceiving  Giovanni  and  his  companions  they 
became  silent,  but  when  they  had  passed  them 
they  again  began  to  laugh  and  jest;  they  jested 
about  Giovanni,  who,  they  said,  might  be  the 
Saint  between  two  temptresses. 

A  great  cloud  with  silver  edges,  the  first  of  a 
whole  fleet,  sailing  towards  the  west,  hid  the  sun. 
Noemi,  greatly  refreshed,  proposed  that  they 
should  take  advantage  of  the  shade,  and  go 
forward.  A  few  steps  below  the  cross  of  which, 
according  to  Torquato,  the  parish  priest  had 


204  The  Saint 

dreamed,  they  met  a  bourgeois  dressed  in  black, 
who  was  coming  down,  riding  a  mule. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  addressing  the 
ladies  and  reining  in  his  mule,  "but  is  either  of 
you  Her  Excellency  the  Duchess  di  Civitella?" 

On  receiving  an  answer  he  apologised,  saying 
that  a  friend  of  his-  -a  senator — had  recommended 
this  duchess  to  his  care ;  that  he  himself  did  not 
know  her,  but  that  she  was  coming  to  Jenne  to 
see  the  Saint. 

"  Indeed,  perhaps  you,  gentlemen,  have  come  for 
the  same  purpose!"  he  said  smiling.  "Every 
one  comes  for  that  now.  Once  upon  a  time  they 
came  to  see  a  pope!  Certainly!  There  was  a 
pope  at  Jenne  once — Alexander  IV.  You  will 
see  the  inscription :  '  Color es  astivos  vitandi  caussa.' 
Now  they  come  for  a  saint.  He  ought  to  be 
more  than  a  pope,  but  I  fear  he  is  less.  Did  you 
see  the  two  sick  people?  did  you  see  the  students 
from  Rome?  Ah!  you  will  see  other  astonishing 
things,  other  astonishing  things!  But,  after  all, 
I  am  afraid  he  is  less  than  a  pope!  A  pleasant 
journey  to  you!" 

Beyond  the  cross,  they  ascended  with  the  open 
sky  before  them,  between  the  green  ridges,  which 
slope  downward,  forming  the  lonely  hollow  of 
Jenne,  which  is  crowned  on  the  opposite  side 
with  that  wretched  herd  of  poor  dwellings, 
dominated  by  the  campanile.  Giovanni  had  been 
to  Jenne  before,  but  it  did  not  seem  to  him  in  any 
way  changed  because  a  saint  now  lived  there, 


The  Saint  205 

and  miracles  were  performed  there.  It  impressed 
his  wife,  who  now  saw  it  for  the  first  time,  as  a 
spot  which  might  inspire  religious  contemplation, 
by  that  sense  of  altitude,  not  suggested  by  distant 
views,  by  that  deep  sky  behind  the  village,  by  its 
solitude,  its  silence.  Noemi  was  thinking  with 
profound  pity  of  poor  far-away  Jeanne. 

Ill 

The  innkeeper  at  Jenne  was  a  worthy,  gravely 
courteous  man,  in  spectacles,  who,  having  been  to 
America,  could  be  said  to  know  the  world,  but  who 
seemed  to  have  escaped  its  corrupting  influences. 
To  the  new-comers  he  spoke  of  Benedetto  favour- 
ably, on  the  whole,  but  with  a  certain  diplomatic 
reserve.  He  did  not  call  him  "the  Saint,"  he 
called  him  "  Fra  Benedetto. "  The  Selvas  learned 
from  him  that  Benedetto  occupied  a  cabin  belong- 
ing to  the  innkeeper  himself,  in  payment  of  which 
he  tilled  a  small  piece  of  ground.  Those  who 
wished  to  see  him  must  wait  until  eleven  o'clock. 
Now  he  was  mowing  the  grass.  His  life  was  regu- 
lated in  the  following  manner:  At  dawn  he  went 
to  hear  the  parish  priest  say  Mass,  then  he  worked 
until  eleven.  He  ate  only  bread,  herbs,  and  fruit 
and  drank  only  water.  In  the  afternoon  he 
worked  in  the  fields  of  widows  and  orphans.  In 
the  evening,  seated  before  his  door,  he  talked  of 
religion. 

At  half-past  eleven,  the  Selvas  and  Noemi 
accompanied  by  the  innkeeper's  wife — a  fine,  big 


206  The  Saint 

woman,  very  neat,  very  simple,  and  gay  in  a  quiet 
way — went  to  visit  Sant'  Andrea,  the  church  of 
Jenne.  Coming  out  into  the  open  square  from  the 
maze  of  narrow  lanes,  where  stands  the  inn,  they 
found  a  large  assemblage  of  women,  strangers,  so 
the  hostess  said.  She  could  distinguish  them  by 
their  corselets,  their  fustian  skirts,  their  foot-gear. 
Those  were  from  Trevi,  those  from  Filettino,  and 
those  others  from  Vallepietra.  The  hostess  went 
into  a  bakehouse  on  the  right  of  the  church,  where 
several  women  of  Jenne  were  having  their  sti- 
acciati1  baked,  each  having  brought  her  own. 

"Strangers,  who  wish  to  talk  with  our  Saint," 
she  said  to  Maria.  She  did  not.  like  her  husband, 
say  "  Fra  Benedetto, "  she  called  him  "  the  Saint. " 

"  But  not  to  his  face,"  she  declared,  crimsoning, 
"  because  it  vexes  him. "  "  No,  he  does  not  really 
get  angry,  because  he  is  a  saint,  but  he  begs  very 
earnestly  not  to  be  called  thus. " 

In  the  large,  dilapidated  church — which,  "  one 
Sunday  or  another,  will  crush  us  all,  like  so  many 
rats, "  the  hostess  said — there  were  only  the  two 
invalids  and  their  party.  The  sick  man  and  girl 
had  been  laid  on  the  floor  exactly  in  the  centre  of 
the  church,  with  two  pillows  under  their  heads. 
Their  companions,  on  their  knees,  were  singing 
psalms,  and,  without  looking  at  the  new-comers, 
continued  their  devotions. 

«  Stiacciati  a  sort  of  very  large,  round  cake,  common  in 
all  parts  of  Italy.  It  is  made  of  cornflour,  of  wheatflour,  or 
of  chestnut-flour,  and  in  some  pkces  of  vegetables.  It  is 
mixed  with  oil,  and  baked  in  a  flat  pan. — Translator's  Note. 


The  Saint  207 

"  Probably  they  have  brought  them  to  be  blessed 
by  the  Saint, "  said  the  hostess  under  her  breath. 
"That  is  painful  to  him;  he  does  not  wish  it. 
Perhaps  they  will  try  to  touch  his  habit  by  stealth, 
but  even  that  is  difficult  now." 

The  poor  people  stopped  singing,  and  a  woman 
came  to  ask  the  hostess  if  it  had  already  struck 
eleven  o'clock?  Maria  answered,  telling  her  it 
was  only  a  quarter  to  eleven,  and  then  inquired 
about  the  two  sick  ones.  The  man  had  been  ill 
with  fever  for  two  years,  and  the  girl,  his  sister, 
had  heart  disease.  They  had  come  from  the  low- 
lands of  Arcinazzo,  a  journey  of  several  hours,  to 
be  healed  by  the  Saint  of  Jenne.  A  woman  from 
Arcinazzo,  who  had  heart  disease,  had  been  cured 
some  days  before  by  simply  touching  his  habit. 
Maria  and  Noemi  spoke  to  the  sufferers.  The  girl 
was  confident,  but  the  man,  who  was  shaking  with 
fever,  seemed  to  have  come  simply  to  satisfy  his 
people,  to  give  this  a  trial  also.  He  had  suffered 
greatly  on  the  journey. 

"These  roads  lead  me  into  the  next  world,"  he 
said.  "  I  shall  be  healed  in  that  way. " 

A  woman,  his  mother  perhaps,  burst  into  tears, 
and  besought  him  to  pray,  to  commend  himself  to 
Jesus,  to  Mary.  The  two  sisters  withdrew,  in 
obedience  to  a  summons  from  Giovanni;  for  a 
quarrel  had  broken  out  in  the  square,  between  the 
women  and  the  students  who  had  passed  the  Selvas 
on  the  Jenne  hillside.  The  students  had  probably 
jested  broadly  concerning  the  devotion  of  the 


208  The  Saint 

women  to  the  Saint,  and  this  had  enraged  them. 
The  women  of  Jenne  came  rushing  out  of  the  bake- 
house, while  the  plumes  of  a  couple  of  carabinieri 
appeared  in  the  opposite  direction.  Noemi  and 
Maria  mingled  with  the  women,  trying  to  pacify 
them.  Giovanni  harangued  the  students,  who 
swaggered  and  laughed,  and  might  possibly  do 
worse.  Chanting  was  heard  in  the  church,  muf- 
fled at  first  and  then  loud,  as  the  door  was  thrown 
open: 

"  Sancta  Maria,  or  a  pro  nobis." 

The  two  sufferers  appeared.  The  girl,  supported 
on  either  side,  was  walking ;  the  man,  as  limp  as  a 
corpse,  was  being  borne  along,  some  women  carry- 
ing his  shoulders,  others  his  feet;  and  the  bearers 
were  also  chanting,  with  solemn  faces: 

"Sancta  Virgo  virginum,  or  a  pro  nobis." 

The  women  in  the  square  all  fell  on  their  knees, 
the  astonished  carabinieri  standing  in  their  midst. 
The  students  were  silent,  while  a  party  of  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  about  to  enter  the  square  from 
the  Val  d'Aniene  mule-path,  stopped  their  mules. 
First  Maria,  then  Noemi,  knelt,  drawn  towards  the 
earth  by  an  impulse  which  made  them  tremble 
with  emotion.  Giovanni  hesitated.  This  was  not 
his  faith.  It  seemed  to  him  an  offence  to  the 
Creator,  the  Giver  of  reason,  to  allow  a  sick  man  to 
journey  a  long  distance  on  a  mule,  that  he  might 
be  miraculously  healed  by  an  image,  a  relic,  or  a 
man.  Still  it  was  faith.  It  was — enclosed  in  a 
rough  envelope  of  frail  ignorance — that  sense 


The  Saint  209 

denied,  to  proud  minds,  of  the  hidden  truth  which 
is  life ;  that  mysterious  radium  within  the  mass  of 
impure  ore.  It  was  faith,  it  was  guiltless  error,  it 
was  love,  it  was  suffering,  it  was  a  visible  some- 
thing belonging  to  the  union  of  the  highest  mys- 
teries of  the  Universe.  The  ground  itself,  the 
great  sad  face  of  the  church,  and  the  small  humble 
faces  of  the  little  houses  surrounding  the  square, 
seem  to  understand,  to  reverence  it.  In  his  mind's 
eye  Giovanni  saw  the  image  of  a  dead  woman  who 
had  been  dear  to  him,  and  who  had  believed  thus ; 
a  cold  wave  flowed  through  his  blood,  his  knees 
bent  under  him.  The  little  band  with  the  sufferers 
passed  on,  singing,  their  faces  uplifted: 

"Mater  Christi. "  The  kneeling  women  an- 
swered with  bowed  heads: 

"Ora  pro  nobis." 

Then  they  rose,  and  followed  the  procession, 
while  three  or  four  women  of  Jenne  said  aloud : 

"He  does  not  wish  it,  he  does  not  wish  it!" 

One  of  them  explained  to  Maria  that  the  Saint 
did  not  wish  the  sick  brought  to  him.  Their  words 
were  not  heeded,  so  they  also  joined  the  procession, 
anxious  to  see  what  would  happen. 

Maria  and  Giovanni  also,  who.  at  first,  had  been 
loath  to  do  so,  started  on,  following  the  eager 
Noemi.  Behind  them,  at  a  proper  distance  to 
indicate  that  they  were  spectators  and  not  partici- 
pants, came  the  students.  Alone,  and  at  a  much 
greater  distance,  walked  the  carabinieri,  forming 
the  end  of  this  winding,  snake-like  line  of  people, 
14 


2io  The  Saint 

which  slipped  into  a  crack  between  the  dilapidated 
houses,  huddled  together  opposite  the  church,  and 
disappeared. 

It  disappeared,  writhing  through  dark  lanes, 
with  pompous  names,  which  lead  to  another  side 
of  the  village,  the  most  miserable,  the  most  de- 
formed part.  Here,  on  the  steep  and  rocky  hillside, 
loosely  fastened  to  projections,  to  slabs  of  rock,  the 
hovels,  piled  one  above  the  other,  slide  downwards 
among  the  stones.  The  small  black  windows,  like 
empty  sockets  in  a  skull,  stare  into  the  silence  of 
the  deep  and  narrow  valley.  The  doors  pour  out 
crazy  flights  of  stairs  upon  the  slope,  most  of  them 
reduced  to  three  or  four  splintered  steps,  while 
some  of  the  doors  are  entirely  widowed  of  their 
steps.  When  one  has,  with  difficulty,  succeeded 
in  climbing  in  at  one  of  these  doors,  one  finds  a 
cave  without  light  or  air. 

"  So  mali  passi,  vigoli  cattivi!  [Bad  walking,  bad 
lanes!  ] "  said  a  smiling  old  woman,  standing  in  her 
doorway,  as  the  ladies  passed. 

One  of  these  caves,  so  difficult  of  access,  was 
Benedetto's  abode.  Two  streams  of  people — the 
crowd  had  split  coming  down  the  hill — met  below 
the  open  door.  Some  women  came  out  of  a 
neighbouring  bakehouse  to  say  that  Benedetto  was 
not  there.  The  crowd  surged  round  the  invalids, 
and  groans  were  heard.  Anxious  questions  were 
asked,  rumours  were  carried  up  through  the  two 
streams  of  people,  to  the  very  end  of  the  procession, 
where  the  cause  of  those  groans  was  not  under- 


The  Saint  211 

stood,  and  all,  eager  to  see,  were  struggling  down- 
wards. Perhaps  the  sufferers  had  become  worse, 
there  in  the  blazing  sun.  Three  students  slid 
down  among  the  women,  and  were  received  with 
grunts  and  imprecations.  Now  a  woman  of  the 
town  has  spoken: 

"Take  the  poor  creatures  inside." 

Yes,  yes!  Inside,  inside!  Into  the  Saint's 
house! 

The  crowd  already  expects  a  miracle  from  the 
walls  between  which  he  dwells,  from  the  floor  his 
foot  presses,  from  all  these  objects  saturated  with 
his  holiness.  On  the  Saint's  bed !  On  the  Saint's 
bed !  Some  boards  are  laid  upon  the  broken  slabs 
of  stone  which  lead  up  to  Benedetto's  door,  and 
the  two  invalids  are  half  pushed,  half  carried  up, 
by  the  surging  crowd.  There  they  lie,  crosswise 
upon  the  Saint's  pallet.  The  crowd  fills  the  cave. 
All  fall  upon  their  knees  in  prayer. 

It  is  indeed  a  cave.  One  whole  side  of  it  is  a 
wall  of  yellowish  rock,  hewn  obliquely.  The  bare, 
uneven  earth  forms  the  floor.  Near  the  couch, 
raised  about  two  spans,  is  a  fireplace.  There  are 
no  windows,  but  a  ray  of  sunshine,  falling  through 
the  chimney,  strikes — like  a  celestial  flame — on 
the  stones  of  the  hearth  where  there  is  no  trace  of 
ashes.  A  brown  blanket  is  spread  over  the  couch. 
A  cross  is  roughly  carved  on  the  face  of  the  rock, 
near  the  entrance.  In  one  corner  appear — the 
only  luxuries — a  large  pail  full  of  water,  a  green 
basin,  a  bottle,  and  a  glass.  Some  books  are  piled 


2i2  The  Saint 

on  a  rickety  cane-seated  chair ;  and  a  second  chair 
bears  a  plate  of  beans  and  some  bread.  The  place 
indicates  extreme  poverty,  but  is  clean  and 
orderly. 

The  feverish  man  complains  of  the  cold,  of  the 
dampness,  of  the  dark.  He  says  he  is  worse,  that 
they  have  brought  him  here  to  die.  They  beseech 
him  to  calm  himself,  to  hope.  But  his  young 
sister,  with  the  diseased  heart,  begins  to  feel  relief 
almost  as  soon  as  they  have  placed  her  on  the  bed. 
She  proclaims  this  at  once,  announces  that  she  is 
being  healed.  Pressing  around  her  they  laugh 
and  cry,  and  praise  the  Lord  all  at  the  same 
moment.  They  kiss  her  garments,  as  if  she  her- 
self had  become  holy ;  the  news  is  shouted  to  those 
outside.  Joyous  voices  answer,  more  people  press 
into  the  den,  with  glowing  faces,  with  eager  eyes. 
But  at  that  moment  some  one  who  has  gone 
farther  down  the  hill  in  search  of  the  Saint,  cries 
from  afar:  ':The  Saint  is  coming!  The  Saint  is 
coming!"  Then  the  cave  pours  out  a  stream  of 
people  upon  the  slope ;  a  din  of  voices  and  a  rush  of 
feet  flow  downwards,  and  in  a  second  the  Selvas 
and  the  three  or  four  students  stand  alone,  below 
the  door  of  the  cabin.  Many  of  the  women  of  Jenne 
have  gone  back  to  their  work  in  the  bakehouse, 
while  others  are  looking  on  from  the  doorway. 
Maria  exchanges  a  few  words  with  the  latter.  Are 
they  all  strangers,  those  who  have  gone  down  ?  Eh, 
si!  Not  all,  but  most  of  them.  People  from 
Vallepietra,  for  the  most  part.  It  would  be  better 


The  Saint  213 

if  water  came  to  us  from  Vallepietra.  And  what 
do  they  want?  To  take  the  Saint  away  from 
Jenne  with  them?  Yes,  they  have  said  that;  they 
talked  about  doing  great  things.  And  you  of 
Jenne?  We  of  Jenne  know  he  does  not  wish  to  go. 
And  besides —  Her  companions  call  out  some- 
thing from  within;  the  woman  turns  away;  a 
quarrel  is  going  on.  Giovanni,  Maria,  and  the 
students  go  in  to  see  the  girl  who  has  been  mirac- 
ulously healed.  Noemi  remains  outside.  She  is 
impatient  to  see  Benedetto ;  she  trembles,  without 
knowing  why ;  in  her  heart  she  calls  herself  a  fool ; 
but  she  does  not  move. 

Two  Benedictine  habits  are  crossing  the  small 
field  in  the  distance  below.  Above  the  second  the 
blade  of  a  scythe  flashes  from  time  to  time.  Hear- 
ing the  hubbub  of  voices,  and  steps  descending 
from  above,  Benedetto  turned  to  his  companion 
with  a  smile: 

"  Padre  mio!" 

Upon  reaching  Jenne,  Don  Clemente  had  im- 
mediately joined  Benedetto  in  the  small  field  he 
was  mowing.  He  had  given  him  the  painful 
message,  and  after  a  long  discussion,  had  promised 
to  say  certain  things  which  Benedetto  wished  said, 
to  those  who  called  him  a  saint.  He  also  heard  the 
hubbub  of  the  crowd  which  was  coming  down ;  the 
cry  of  "The  Saint!  The  Saint!"  And  when 
Benedetto  said  to  him,  smiling:  "Padre  mio!"  his 
face  paled,  but  he  made  a  gesture  of  acquiescence, 
and  stepped  forward.  Benedetto  dropped  his 


214  The  Saint 

scythe  and  went  a  few  steps  away  from  the  path. 
He  sat  down  behind  a  rock  and  a  great  apple  tree 
covered  with  blossoms,  which  hid  him  from  those 
who  were  approaching.  Don  Clemente  faced  the 
crowd  alone. 

On  perceiving  him  they  stopped .  Several  voices 
said  "It  is  not  he!"  Other  voices  answered  "He 
is  behind ! "  While  others  in  the  rear-guard  called 
out  "Press  forward!"  The  column  moved  on. 

Then  Don  Clemente  raised  his  hand  and  said: 

"Listen!" 

This  man  who  could  not  speak  to  two  strangers 
without  blushing  was  now  very  pale.  His  soft, 
sweet  voice  hardly  made  itself  heard,  but  the  ges- 
ture was  seen.  The  beautiful,  peaceful  face,  the 
tall  figure,  inspired  reverence. 

"  You  seek  Benedetto, "  said  he.  "  You  call  him 
a  saint.  By  this  you  cause  him  great  grief.  Since 
the  day  of  his  arrival  at  Jenne  he  has  repeatedly 
stated  that  he  was  a  great  sinner,  brought  by  the 
grace  of  God  to  repentance.  Now  he  wishes  me  to 
confirm  this  to  you.  I  do  confirm  it;  it  is  the 
truth.  He  was  a  great  sinner.  To-morrow  he 
may  fall  again.  If  he  believed  you,  for  one  mo- 
ment only,  when  you  call  him  a  saint,  God  would 
depart  from  him.  Do  not  again  call  him  thus,  and 
above  all  do  not  ask  him  to  perform  miracles. " 

"Padre!"  Coming  forward,  his  arms  spread 
wide,  an  old  man,  tall,  thin,  toothless,  with  the 
profile  of  the  eagle,  interrupted  him  in  a  solemn 
voice.  "  Padre,  we  do  not  ask  for  a  miracle,  the 


The  Saint  215 

miracle  is  already  performed.  The  woman  was 
healed  when  she  touched  the  man's  dwelling,  and 
we  say  to  you  that  the  man  is  saintly,  and  that  if 
there  are  those  in  Jenne  who  speak  differently, 
they  are  worthy  to  burn  in  the  very  bottom  of 
hell !  Padre,  we  kiss  your  hands,  but  we  say  this. ' ' 

"There  is  another  to  be  healed,  another  to  be 
healed ! "  ten,  twenty  voices  cried.  "  Let  the  Saint 
come!" 

Among  the  students  forming  the  rear-guard 
voices  shouted:  "Bring  the  Saint  forward!  Let 
the  Saint  speak!" 

"What  actions  are  these?"  the  old  man  ex- 
claimed, turning  round  with  the  indignation  of  the 
popular  orator  who  finds  himself  deposed.  "  What 
actions  are  these?" 

A  rumble  of  angry  voices  drowned  his  words, 
and  the  students  continued  to  shout  louder  than 
ever: 

"The  Saint!  Let  the  Saint  speak !  Away  with 
the  priest!  Away  with  him!" 

The  women  turned  threateningly: 

' '  Away  with  you ,  yourselves !     Away  with  you ! ' ' 

Up  above,  among  the  hovels  perched  on  the  hill- 
side, the  plumes  of  the  carabinieri  appeared.  Then 
Benedetto  rose,  and  came  out  into  the  open. 

As  soon  as  the  people  perceived  him,  they 
greeted  him  with  a  great,  joyous  clamour.  The 
Selvas  went  to  the  door  of  the  cave  and  looked 
down.  Noemi  ran  swiftly  down  the  hill.  In  a 
second  Benedetto  found  himself  surrounded  by 


216  The  Saint 

people  kissing  his  habit,  and  pouring  out  blessings 
upon  him.  Many  were  weeping,  on  their  knees. 
Noemi,  who  had  rushed  down  alone  behind  the 
students,  pressed  forward,  and  saw  the  man,  at 
last! 

Jeanne  had  shown  her  several  photographs  of 
him,  telling  her  at  the 'same  time  that  no  one  of 
them  was  entirely  satisfactory.  In  Piero  Maironi's 
winning  face  Noemi  had  noticed  a  shade  of  sadness ; 
Benedetto's  face  shone  with  extraordinary  vi- 
vacity. Two  days  before  he  had  had  his  hair  and 
beard  shaved,  because  he  had  heard  a  woman 
murmur:  "He  is  as  beautiful  as  Jesus  Himself!" 
The  expression  of  the  dominating  soul  in  him  had 
become  more  marked;  the  nose  had  grown  more 
prominent  through  his  increased  fleshlessness, 
there  were  great  dark  rings  under  his  eyes.  The 
eyes  had  an  ineffable  fascination.  They  still  wore 
an  expression  of  sadness,  but  of  sweet  sadness,  full 
of  vigour,  of  peace,  and  of  mystic  devotion.  Stand- 
ing there,  under  the  little  white  cloud  of  the 
flowering  apple  tree,  in  the  midst  of  the  prostrate 
crowd,  surrounded  by  sunshine  and  moving  shad- 
ows he  seemed  an  apparition  such  as  visited  the 
old  masters.  Noemi  stood  as  if  turned  to  stone, 
a  great  sob  in  her  throat.  Near  her,  several 
women  were  weeping  for  the  joy  of  having  seen 
him,  and  influenced  by  reciprocal  hypnotism.  One, 
who  was  ill  and  weary,  had  seated  herself  on  the 
edge  of  the  path,  where  she  could  not  see  the  Saint, 
and  was  weeping  from  excitement,  without  know- 


The  Saint  217 

ing  why.  Some  late  arrivals  came  torward,  an 
old  man  and  three  women  from  Vallepietra.  The 
three  women  immediately  mistook  Don  Clemente 
for  Benedetto,  and  burst  out  sobbing  and  ex- 
claiming: "How  beautiful  he  is*  how  beautiful!" 
In  the  meantime  Benedetto,  standing  under  the 
little  white  cloud  of  the  flowering  apple  tree,  had 
succeeded,  with  words  of  sorrow,  of  supplication, 
of  reproach,  in  repulsing  the  assault  of  the  adoring 
throng,  and  in  bringing  the  people  to  their  feet.  A 
cry  went  up  from  the  group  of  students :  "  Speak! " 
Just  at  that  moment  the  bells  of  Jenne,  far  up 
above  them,  solemnly  announced  the  hour  of  noon 
to  the  village,  to  the  solitudes,  to  Monte  Leo,  to 
Monte  Sant'  Antonio,  to  Monte  Altuino,  and  to  the 
clouds,  sailing  westwards.  Benedetto  laid  his  fin- 
ger on  his  lips,  the  bells  alone  spoke.  He  glanced 
at  Don  Clemente,  and  his  look  seemed  to  convey  a 
tacit  invitation.  Don  Clemente  bared  his  head, 
and  began  to  recite  the  Angelus  Domini.  Bene- 
detto, erect,  his  hands  clasped,  said  it  with  him, 
and,  as  long  as  the  bells  continued  to  ring,  kept  his 
gaze  fixed  on  the  young  man  who  had  shouted  to 
him  to  speak ;  his  eyes  were  full  of  sadness,  of  mys- 
tic sweetness.  That  ineffable  look,  the  pealing  of 
the  solemn- voiced  bells,  the  trembling  of  the  grass, 
the  gentle  waving  in  the  breeze  of  the  flowery 
branches,  the  rapt  expression  of  so  many  tearful 
faces,  all  turned  towards  this  one  face,  were 
blended  for  Noemi  into  a  single  word,  which 
thrilled  her  while  it  evaded  her,  as  the  soul  is 


218  The  Saint 

tormented  by  the  longing  for  that  occult  word 
which  underlies  a  tragic  procession  of  harmonious 
chords.  The  bells  ceased,  and  Benedetto  said 
gently  to  those  nearest  him: 

"  Who  are  you,  and  what  has  happened  that  you 
come  to  me  as  if  I  were  that  which  I  am  not?" 

Several  voices  answered  at  once;  he  was  in- 
formed of  the  miracle,  and  of  how  he  was  wanted 
in  this  village  and  in  that. 

"You  exalt  me,"  said  he,  "because  you  are 
blind.  If  this  girl  is  healed,  not  I  have  healed  her, 
but  her  faith  has  made  her  whole.  This  power  of 
faith,  which  has  caused  her  to  rise  up  and  walk,  is 
in  God's  world,  everywhere  and  always,  like  the 
power  of  terror,  which  causes  us  to  tremble  and 
fall  down.  It  is  a  power  in  the  soul,  like  the 
powers  which  are  in  water,  and  in  fire.  There- 
fore, if  the  girl  is  healed,  it  is  because  God  has  put 
this  great  power  into  His  world ;  praise  God  for  it, 
and  not  me.  And  now  listen !  You  offend  God  by 
believing  His  strength  and  bounty  to  be  greater  in 
miracles.  His  strength  and  bounty  are  every- 
where, and  always  infinite.  It  is  difficult  to  under- 
stand how  faith  can  heal,  but  it  is  impossible  to 
understand  how  these  flowers  can  grow.  The  Lord 
would  be  no  less  powerful,  no  less  good,  if  this  girl 
had  not  been  healed.  It  is  well  to  pray  for  health, 
but  pray  still  more  fervently  to  understand  this 
great  thing  of  which  I  have  just  told  you ;  pray  to 
be  able  to  adore  the  Lord's  will,  when  it  gives  you 
death,  as  when  it  gives  you  life.  There  are  men 


The  Saint  219 

in  the  world  who  think  they  do  not  believe  in  God, 
and  when  sickness  comes  to  their  homes  they  say : 
'It  is  the  law,  it  is  nature,  it  is  the  economy  of  the 
Universe ;  we  bow  our  heads,  we  accept  without  a 
murmur,  we  march  on  in  the  path  of  duty. '  Have 
a  care  that  such  men  do  not  pass  before  you  in  the 
kingdom  of  Heaven!  And  reflect  also  on  the 
manner  of  miracles  you  demand.  You  come  to  be 
healed  of  the  ills  of  the  body,  and  for  this  you  wish 
me  to  visit  your  villages.  Have  faith,  and  you 
will  be  healed  without  me.  But  remember  that 
your  faith  may  be  used  to  better  purpose,  accord- 
ing to  the  will  of  God.  Are  you,  all  of  you,  per- 
fectly healthy  in  your  souls?  No,  you  are  not; 
and  what  can  it  profit  you  that  the  skin  be  whole, 
if  the  wine  be  spoiled?  You  love  yourselves  and 
your  families  better  than  truth,  better  than 
justice,  better  than  divine  law.  You  are  always 
dwelling  upon  what  is  due  to  you  and  yours,  and 
you  seldom  dwell  upon  what  is  due  to  others.  You 
believe  your  souls  will  be  saved  by  the  great  num- 
ber of  your  prayers,  and  you  do  not  even  know  how 
to  pray.  You  pray  in  the  same  manner  to  the 
saints,  who  are  the  servants,  and  to  God,  who  is  the 
Master;  when  you  do  not  do  still  worse!  You  do 
not  reflect  that  the  Master  cares  little  for  many 
words.  He  desires  rather  that  you  serve  Him 
faithfully  in  silence,  your  minds  fixed  always  on 
His  will.  And  you  do  not  understand  the  nature  of 
your  own  ills ;  you  are  like  the  dying  man  who  says : 
'I  am  well! '  Perhaps  some  one  of  you  is  thinking 


220  The  Saint 

at  this  moment '  If  I  do  not  understand  that  I  am 
doing  wrong,  then  God  will  not  condemn  me.' 
But  the  Lord  does  not  judge  as  do  the  judges  of 
this  world.  He  who  takes  poison  unwittingly 
must  fall,  as  he  who  takes  it  wittingly  must 
fall.  He  who  is  without  the  white  robe  may 
not  come  to  the  Lord's  supper,  though  he  be  not 
aware  the  robe  is  necessary.  He  who  loves  him- 
self above  all  things,  be  he  ignorant  or  conscious  of 
his  sin,  cannot  pass  through  the  gate  of  the  king- 
dom of  Heaven;  as  the  bride's  finger,  if  it  be 
doubled  up,  cannot  pass  through  the  ring  the 
bridegroom  offers.  Know  the  infirmities  of  your 
souls,  and  pray  with  faith  to  be  freed  from  them. 
In  the  name  of  Christ,  I  say  to  you,  that  you  will 
be  freed  from  them.  The  healing  of  your  body  is 
good  for  you,  for  your  family,  for  the  animals  and 
plants  you  tend;  but  the  healing  of  your  soul — 
believe  this,  though  you  do  not  understand  it! — 
the  healing  of  your  soul  is  good  for  all  the  poor 
souls  of  the  living,  which  are  being  tossed  between 
good  and  evil,  is  good  for  all  the  poor  souls  of  the 
dead,  which  by  toil  and  suffering  are  being  purified, 
as  the  victory  of  a  soldier  is  good  for  the  whole 
nation.  It  is  also  good  for  the  angels,  who,  Jesus 
has  told  us,  feel  immense  joy  at  the  healing  of  a 
soul.  Joy  enhances  their  power ;  and  do  you  think 
their  power  is  for  the  darkness  or  for  the  light,  for 
death  or  for  life?  Ask  with  faith,  first  for  the 
healing  of  the  soul,  and  then  for  the  healing  of  the 
body!" 


The  Saint  221 

From  the  steep  hillside  a  sea  of  faces  looked 
down  on  him;  those  highest  up,  where  only  the 
sound  of  his  voice  could  be  heard,  were  eager,  and 
tear-stained.  Of  those  nearest  him,  some  were 
astonished,  some  enthusiastic,  some  doubtful. 
The  tears  were  pouring  down  Noemi's  pale  face 
also.  The  students  had  put  off  their  air  of  raillery. 
When  Benedetto  ceased,  one  of  them  came  forward 
to  speak,  resolute  and  serious.  At  the  same  mo- 
ment the  old  man  exclaimed: 

"Heal  our  souls,  heal  our  souls!" 

Other  voices  repeated  anxiously: 

"Heal  our  souls,  heal  our  souls!" 

In  an  instant  the  contagion  had  spread  through- 
out the  vanguard ;  they  flung  themselves  on  then- 
knees,  stretching  out  imploring  arms: 

"Heal  our  souls,  heal  our  souls!" 

Benedetto  sprang  forward,  his  hands  clenched  in 
his  hair,  exclaiming: 

"What  are  you  doing  again?  What  are  you 
doing  again?" 

A  shout  rang  out  from  above :  "  La  miracolata! 
The  girl  who  is  healed!"  The  girl  who  had  felt 
health  returning  to  her,  as  she  lay  on  Benedetto's 
bed,  was  coming  down  in  search  of  him,  leaning  on 
the  arm  of  an  elder  sister.  He  heeded  neither  the 
cry  nor  the  movement  among  those  up  above,  who 
parted,  allowing  the  two  women  to  pass.  Being 
unable  to  persuade  the  crowd  to  rise,  he  himself 
fell  upon  his  knees.  Then  those  around  him  rose, 
and  the  excited  movement  and  the  cry  of  "La 


222  The  Saint 

miracolata,  la  miracolata!"  having  reached  them, 
they  forced  him  to  rise  also;  he  did  not  seem  to 
have  heard.  "La  miracolata!"  each  one  repeated 
to  him.  "La  miracolata!"  And  they  searched 
his  face  for  a  trace  of  satisfaction  at  the  miracle, 
with  eyes  that  called  out  "  She  is  coming  to  you ! 
You  have  healed  her!"  They  acted  as  if  he  had 
not  spoken  to  them  only  a  few  minutes  before. 

The  young  girl  was  coming  down,  as  pale  and 
sallow  as  the  stony,  sun-baked  path,  her  gentle, 
sad,  little  face,  resting  against  her  sister's  arm. 
And  the  sister  looked  sad  also.  The  crowd  parted 
before  them,  and  Benedetto,  stepping  aside  sought 
refuge  behind  Don  Clemente;  an  involuntary 
action,  which  however,  seemed  premeditated. 
Every  one  was  trembling  and  smiling,  in  the  antici- 
pation of  another  miracle.  The  two  women  were 
not  deceived ;  they  passed  Don  Clemente  without 
so  much  as  a  glance,  turned  to  Benedetto,  and  the 
elder  said  firmly: 

"  Holy  man  of  God !  You  have  healed  this  one, 
now  heal  the  other  also!" 

Benedetto  replied,  almost  under  his  breath, 
trembling  violently : 

" I  am  not  a  holy  man;  I  did  not  heal  this  one, 
and  for  the  other  one  of  whom  you  speak,  I  can 
only  pray. " 

When  they  had  told  him  that  the  sick  man  was 
their  brother,  that  he  was  in  the  hut,  stretched  on 
the  bed,  and  suffering  greatly,  Benedetto  said  to 
Don  Clemente: 


The  Saint  223 

"Let  us  go  and  care  for  him!" 

And  he  started  forward  with  his  master.  Behind 
them  the  divided  stream  of  people  flowed  together 
again,  noisily.  Benedetto  turned,  and  forbade 
them  to  follow  him ;  he  ordered  the  women  to  at- 
tend to  the  young  girl,  who  must  not  climb  the 
steep  hill  on  foot,  under  the  burning  rays  of  the  sun. 
He  ordered  them  to  take  her  to  the  inn,  put  her  to 
bed  and  refresh  her  with  food  and  wine.  Those 
who  were  following  stopped,  and  the  others  stepped 
aside,  allowing  him  to  pass.  The  student  who  had 
once  before  asked  to  speak,  approached  him  re- 
spectfully, and  inquired  if  he  and  some  of  his 
friends  might  speak  a  few  words  with  him  alone, 
later  on. 

"Oh  yes!"  Benedetto  answered,  consenting 
with  manly  warmth  and  eagerness.  Noemi,  who 
was  standing  near,  took  heart. 

"I  also  must  ask  for  five  minutes,"  she  said 
in  French,  blushing;  and  then  it  immediately  oc- 
curred to  her  she  had  thus  shown  that  she  knew 
him  to  be  a  man  of  culture ;  her  face  was  aflame, 
as  she  repeated  her  petition  in  Italian. 

Almost  involuntarily  Don  Clemente  pressed 
Benedetto's  arm  gently.  Benedetto  replied  court- 
eously, but  somewhat  drily : 

"Do  you  wish  to  do  a  kind  action?  Care  for 
that  poor  girl. " 

And  he  passed  on. 

He  and  Don  Clemente  entered  the  hovel  alone. 
No  one  had  followed  them.  An  old  woman,  the 


224  The  Saint 

sick  man's  mother,  seeing  him  enter,  threw  herself 
weeping  at  his  feet,  repeating  her  daughter's  words : 

"Are  you  the  holy  man?  Are  you  he?  You 
have  healed  one  of  my  children,  now  heal  this  one 
also." 

At  first,  coming  from  the  sunlight  into  that  dark- 
ness, Benedetto  could  not  distinguish  anything, 
but  presently  he  saw  the  man  stretched  on  the  bed ; 
he  was  breathing  hard,  groaning  and  crying,  and 
cursing  the  Saints,  women,  the  village  of  Jenne, 
and  his  own  unhappy  fate.  On  her  knees  beside 
the  bed,  Maria  Selva  was  wiping  the  sweat  from 
his  brow  with  a  handkerchief.  There  was  no  one 
else  in  the  cave.  Near  the  luminous  entrance  the 
great  cross,  carved  unevenly  on  the  wall  of  yellow- 
ish stone,  was  repeating  at  that  moment  a  dark  and 
solemn  word. 

"Hope  in  God!"  Benedetto  answered  the  old 
woman  gently.  He  went  to  the  bed,  bent  over  the 
sick  man  and  felt  his  pulse.  The  old  woman 
stopped  crying,  the  sufferer  stopped  cursing  and 
groaning.  The  buzzing  of  flies  in  the  light  fire* 
place  could  be  heard. 

"Have  you  sent  for  the  doctor?"  Benedetto 
whispered. 

The  old  woman  began  to  sob  again. 

"  You  heal  him !  You  heal  him !  in  the  name  of 
Jesus  and  Mary!" 

Again  the  sick  man's  groans  were  heard.  Maria 
Selva  said  softly  to  Benedetto : 

"  The  doctor  is  in  Subiaco.     Signer  Selva,  whom 


The  Saint  225 

you  perhaps  know,  has  gone  to  the  chemist's.  I 
am  his  wife. " 

At  this  point  Giovanni  returned,  out  of  breath 
and  worried.  The  chemist's  shop  was  closed,  the 
chemist  absent.  The  parish  priest  had  given  him 
some  Marsala,  and  some  tourists  from  Rome,  who 
had  brought  plenty  of  provisions,  had  given  him 
brandy  and  coffee.  Benedetto  beckoned  Don 
Clemente  to  his  side,  and  whispered  to  him  to 
bring  the  parish  priest,  for  the  man  was  dying.  He 
would  go  for  him  himself,  but  it  seemed  cruel  to 
the  poor  mother  to  leave  them.  Don  Clemente 
went  out  without  a  word.  A  few  steps  from  the 
hut,  the  party  of  smart  people  who  had  come  from 
Rome  out  of  curiosity  about  the  Saint  of  Jenne, 
were  holding  a  consultation;  the  party  consisted 
of  three  ladies  and  four  gentlemen,  and  was  under 
the  guidance  of  the  citizen  of  Jenne,  whom  the 
Selvas  had  met  on  the  hillside.  On  perceiving  the 
Benedictine  they  spoke  together  rapidly,  in  an 
undertone,  and  then  one  of  their  number,  a  very 
fashionably  dressed  young  man,  screwed  his  eye- 
glass into  his  eye,  and  came  towards  Don  Cle- 
mente, at  whom  the  ladies  were  looking  with 
admiration,  and  also  with  disappointment,  their 
guide  having  informed  them  that  he  was  not  the 
Saint. 

These  people  also  wished  for  an  interview  with 
Benedetto.  The  ladies  were  especially  anxious  to 
speak  with  him.  The  young  man  added,  with  a 
derisive  smile,  that  for  his  part,  he  did  not  consider 


226  The  Saint 

himself  worthy.  Don  Clemente  answered  very 
shortly,  that  for  the  present  it  was  impossible  to 
speak  with  Benedetto  and  he  walked  away.  The 
young  man  informed  the  ladies  that  the  Saint  was 
in  the  tabernacle,  under  lock  and  key! 

In  the  meantime  Benedetto — although  the  dis- 
tracted mother  implored  him  not  to  use  medicines, 
but  to  perform  a  miracle- — was  comforting  the 
prostrate  man  with  a  few  mouthfuls  of  the  cordial 
Giovanni  Selva  had  brought,  but  still  more  com- 
forting were  his  gentle  caresses,  and  the  promise  of 
other  saving  words,  which  would  soon  be  brought 
to  him.  And  the  pitying  voice,  tender  and  grave, 
worked  a  miracle  of  peace.  The  sick  man  breathed 
with  great  difficulty,  and  still  groaned,  but  he 
no  longer  cursed.  The  mother,  wild  with  hope, 
murmured  tearfully,  with  clasped  hands. 
"The  miracle,  the  miracle,  the  miracle!" 
"Caro  [dear  one],"  Benedetto  said,  "you  are  in 
God's  hand,  and  you  feel  its  might.  Give  yourself 
up  to  Him,  and  you  will  feel  its  gentleness.  Let  His 
hand  place  you  once  more  in  the  ocean  of  life,  or 
place  you  in  heaven,  or  place  you  where  it  will,  but 
give  yourself  up,  do  not  think  of  that.  When  you 
were  a  little  child  your  mother  carried  you,  and  you 
asked  neither  how,  nor  when,  nor  why ;  you  were  in 
her  arms,  you  were  in  her  love,  you  asked  nothing 
more.  It  is  the  same  now,  caro.  I,  who  speak  to 
you,  have  done  much  evil  in  my  life,  perhaps  you 
also  have  done  a  little  evil ;  perhaps  you  remember 
it.  Weep,  weep,  resting  thus  on  the  bosom  of  the 


The  Saint  227 

Father  who  is  calling  you,  who  longs  to  pardon, 
who  longs  to  forget  it  all.  Presently  the  priest 
will  come,  and  you  will  tell  him  everything,  all  the 
evil  you  have  done,  just  as  you  remember  it,  with- 
out anguish.  And  then,  do  you  know  who  will 
come  to  you  in  the  great  mystery?  Do  you  know, 
caro,  what  love,  what  pity,  what  joy,  what  life 
will  come?" 

Struggling  in  the  shadow  of  death,  his  glassy 
eyes  fixed  on  Benedetto,  eyes  which  shone  with  an 
intense  longing,  and  with  the  fear  of  being  unable 
to  express  it,  the  poor  young  man  who  had  mis- 
understood Benedetto's  words,  and  thought  he 
must  confess  to  him,  began  telling  him  of  his  sins. 
The  mother,  who,  while  Benedetto  had  been  speak- 
ing, had  flung  herself  on  her  knees  in  front  of  the 
wall  of  rock,  and  kept  her  lips  pressed  to  the  cross 
expecting  a  miracle,  started  up  at  the  strange  ring 
in  that  voice,  sprang  to  the  bedside  and — under- 
standing— gave  a  cry  of  despair,  flinging  her  hands 
towards  heaven,  while  Benedetto,  terrified,  ex- 
claimed: "No,  caro,  not  to  me,  not  to  me!"  But 
the  sick  man  did  not  hear;  he  put  his  arm  round 
Benedetto's  neck,  drawing  him  to  him,  and 
continued  his  sorrowful  confession,  Benedetto 
repeating  over  and  over  again  "  My  God,  my  God! " 
and  making  a  mighty  effort  not  to  hear,  but  lack- 
ing the  courage  to  tear  himself  away  from  the 
dying  man's  embrace.  And,  in  fact,  he  did  not 
hear,  nor  would  it  have  been  easy  to  do  so,  for  the 
words  came  so  slowly,  so  brokenly,  so  confusedly. 


228  The  Saint 

Still  the  parish  priest  did  not  appear,  and  Don 
Clemente  did  not  return.  Subdued  voices  and 
steps  could  be  heard  outside,  and  sometimes  a 
curious  face  peered  in  at  the  door,  but  no  one 
entered.  The  dying  man's  words  lost  themselves 
in  a  confusion  of  weak  sounds,  and  at  last  he  was 
silent. 

"  Is  there  any  one  outside? "  Benedetto  inquired. 
"Let  some  one  go  to  the  parish  priest,  and  bid 
him  hasten." 

Giovanni  and  Maria  were  attending  to  the 
mother,  who,  quite  beside  herself,  was  tossed  be- 
tween grief  and  anger.  After  having  believed  in 
the  miracle,  she  would  not  now  believe  that  her  son 
had  been  reduced  to  this  desperate  condition  by 
natural  causes ;  at  one  moment  she  wept  for  him, 
and  at  the  next  cursed  the  medicines  Benedetto 
had  given  him,  although  the  Selvas  assured  her 
they  were  not  medicines.  Maria  had  put  her  arms 
round  her,  partly  to  comfort  her  and  partly  to  hold 
her.  She  signed  to  Giovanni  to  go  for  the  priest 
and  Giovanni  hurried  away.  The  glistening  eyes 
of  the  dying  man  were  full  of  supplication.  Bene- 
detto said  to  him: 

"My  son,  do  you  long  for  Christ?" 

With  an  indescribable  groan,  he  bowed  his  head 
feebly  in  assent.  Benedetto  kissed  him  and  kissed 
him  again,  tenderly. 

"  Christ  tells  me  that  your  sins  are  forgiven,  and 
that  you  may  depart  in  peace. " 

The  glistening  eyes  lighted  up  with  joy. 


The  Saint  229 

Benedetto  called  the  mother,  who,  escaping  from 
Maria's  open  arms,  threw  herself  upon  her  son. 
At  that  moment  Don  Clemente  entered,  looking 
exhausted;  Giovanni  and  the  parish  priest  were 
with  him. 

At  the  priest's  house  Don  Clemente  had  found 
an  ecclesiastic  whom  he  did  not  know,  arguing  with 
the  parish  priest.  According  to  what  he  said,  a 
crowd  of  fanatics  were  about  to  carry  the  girl  who 
had  been  healed  by  a  miracle  to  the  church  of 
Sant'  Andrea,  to  return  thanks  to  God.  It  was 
the  priest's  duty  to  prevent  such  a  scandal.  If 
the  healing  of  this  girl  were  not  an  imposture, 
neither  was  it  a  fact.  The  would-be  miracle- 
worker  had  also  preached  much  rank  heresy  con- 
cerning miracles  and  eternal  salvation.  He  had 
spoken  of  faith  as  being  a  natural  virtue;  he  had 
even  criticised  Christ,  who  healed  the  sick.  At 
present  he  was  preparing  another  miracle  with  a 
second  unfortunate  victim.  A  stop  must  be  put  to 
this !  Put  a  stop  to  it,  indeed !  The  poor  priest  who 
already  perceived  the  odour  of  the  Holy  Office, 
reflected  that  it  was  easy  enough  to  say  "  put  a  stop 
to  it, "  but  how  was  it  to  be  accomplished?  Don 
Clemente's  arrival  at  that  point  gave  him  a  moment 
of  relief.  "Now,"  he  told  himself,  "he  will  help 
me. "  But,  on  the  contrary,  things  were  worse 
than  ever.  When  he  had  heard  Don  Clemente's 
sad  message  the  strange  priest  exclaimed : 

"You  see!     That  is  how  these  miracles  end. 


230  The  Saint 

You  must  not  enter  that  heretic's  house  with  the 
holy  viaticum,  unless  he  has  first  left  it,  and  left 
it  never  to  return." 

Don  Clemente's  face  flushed. 

"  He  is  not  a  heretic, "  said  he.  "  He  is  a  man  of 
God!" 

"You  say  so!"  the  other  retorted. 

"And  you,  consider  well!"  he  added,  turning  to 
the  parish  priest.  "  But,  after  all,  you  are  free  to 
act  as  you  please.  It  is  none  of  my  business. 
A  rivederlaf" 

Having  bowed  to  Don  Clemente,  he  slipped  out 
of  the  room,  without  another  word. 

"And  now?  And  now?"  groaned  the  unhappy 
priest,  pressing  his  hands  to  his  temples.  "  That  is  a 
terrible  man,  but  I  must  not  betray  the  Almighty! 
Tell  me  what  to  do!  Tell  me  what  to  do!" 

Indeed  the  parish  priest  had  a  holy  fear  of  God, 
but  he  was  also  not  without  a  certain  fear  (half 
holy,  half  human),  of  Don  Clemente,  of  the  austere 
conscience  which  would  judge  him.  At  that  de- 
cisive moment  the  wisest  course  to  pursue  became 
suddenly  clear  to  Don  Clemente. 

"  Arrange  for  the  viaticum, "  said  he,  "  and  come 
with  me  at  once,  to  hear  this  poor  young  man's 
confession.  Benedetto  will  show  whether  he  be  a 
heretic  or  a  man  of  God!" 

The  servant  came  to  say  a  gentleman  begged  the 
priest  to  make  haste,  for  the  sick  man  was  dying. 

Don  Clemente,    much  exhausted,  entered  the 


The  Saint  231 

hut,  with  Giovanni  and  the  parish  priest.  He 
called  Benedetto  to  him,  standing  near  the  door 
and  spoke  to  him  in  an  undertone.  The  rattling 
had  begun  in  the  sick  man's  throat.  Benedetto 
listened  with  bowed  head  to  the  painful  words 
which  demanded  of  him  a  saintly  humiliation ;  he 
knelt,  without  answering,  before  the  cross  he  had 
carved  on  the  rock  and  kissed  it  eagerly  at  the 
point  where  the  tragic  arms  meet,  as  if  to  draw 
into  himself  from  the  furrow  in  the  stone,  the 
symbol  of  sacrifice,  its  love,  its  blessedness,  its 
strength  its  life  and  then,  rising,  he  went  forth  for 
ever. 

The  sun  was  disappearing  in  a  whirling  mass  of 
smoke-like  clouds  rising,  in  the  north,  behind  the 
village.  The  places  which,  only  a  short  time  be- 
fore, had  been  astir  with  people,  were  now  colour- 
less and  deserted.  From  the  turnings  of  stony 
lanes,  from  behind  half-open  doors,  round  the 
corners  of  poor  houses,  women  were  peering.  When 
Benedetto  came  in  sight  they  all  withdrew.  He 
felt  that  Jenne  knew  of  the  agony  of  the  sick  man 
who  had  come  to  him  in  search  of  health,  he  felt 
that  the  hour  of  triumph  had  come  for  his  adver- 
saries. Don  Clemente,  the  Master,  the  friend,  had 
first  asked  him  to  lay  aside  his  habit,  and  now 
asked  him  to  go  forth  from  his  house,  to  go  forth 
from  Jenne.  It  is  true  he  had  asked  in  grief  and 
love,  still  he  had  asked.  Partly  because  of  the 
bitterness  of  it  all,  partly  because  of  his  long  fast — 


232  The  Saint 

he  had  not  been  able  to  eat  his  mid-day  meal  of 
beans  and  bread — he  felt  ready  to  faint,  and  his 
sight  was  troubled.  He  sank  down  on  the  decayed 
threshold  of  a  small,  closed  door,  at  the  entrance 
to  the  little  lane  called  delta  Corte.  A  long  peal  of 
thunder  sounded  above  his  head. 

Little  by  little,  as  he  rested,  he  recovered.  He 
thought  of  the  man  who  was  dying  in  the  desire  of 
Christ,  and  a  wave  of  sweetness  swept  his  soul. 
He  was  filled  with  remorse  that  he  had,  for  a  few 
moments  forgotten  the  Lord's  great  gift;  that  he 
had  ceased  to  love  the  cross,  as  soon  as  he  had 
drawn  life  and  joy  from  it.  He  hid  his  face  in  his 
hands  and  wept  silently.  A  slight  noise  above  of 
a  shutter  being  opened;  something  soft  fell  upon 
his  head.  With  a  start,  he  removed  his  hands 
from  his  eyes ;  at  his  feet  lay  a  tiny  wild  rose.  He 
shivered!  For  several  days — either  on  returning 
to  his  hut  at  night,  or  on  leaving  it  in  the  morning 
— he  had  found  flowers  on  his  threshold.  He  had 
never  removed  them.  He  simply  placed  them  on 
one  side  upon  a  stone,  that  they  might  not  be 
stepped  on,  that  was  all.  Neither  had  he  ever  tried 
to  discover  what  hand  laid  them  there.  Surely 
this  tiny  wild  rose  had  fallen  from  the  same  hand. 
He  did  not  raise  his  head,  but  he  understood  that 
even  if  he  did  not  lift  the  rose,  or  make  any  move- 
ment towards  it,  he  must,  nevertheless,  leave  the 
spot.  He  tried  to  rise,  but  his  limbs  could,  as  yet, 
hardly  support  him,  and  he  tarried  a  moment  be- 
fore moving  away.  The  thunder  rumbled  again 


The  Saint  233 

louder  and  longer.  A  small  door  was  pushed  open, 
and  a  young  girl,  dressed  in  black,  looked  out.  She 
was  fair,  and  as  white  as  wax ;  her  blue  eyes  were 
full  of  despair  and  of  tears.  Benedetto  could  not 
help  turning  his  face  towards  her.  He  recognised 
the  village  schoolmistress,  whom  he  had  once  seen 
for  a  moment  at  the  priest's  house.  He  was  al- 
ready moving  away  without  greeting  her,  when  she 
moaned  softly:  "Hear  me!"  Stepping  back  into 
the  passage  she  fell  upon  her  knees,  stretched  out 
beseeching  hands  to  him,  and  dropped  her  head 
upon  her  breast. 

Benedetto  stopped.  He  hesitated  a  moment 
and  then  said,  with  dignified  gravity: 

"  What  do  you  want  of  me? " 

It  had  become  almost  dark.  The  lightning 
flashed,  the  noise  of  the  thunder  filled  the  miser- 
able little  lane,  and  prevented  the  two  from  hearing 
each  other.  Benedetto  approached  the  door. 

"I  have  been  told,"  the  young  girl  answered, 
without  raising  her  head,  and  pausing  when  the 
thunder  crashed  forth,  "that  you  will  perhaps  be 
obliged  to  leave  Jenne.  A  word  spoken  by  you  has 
given  me  life,  but  your  departure  will  kill  me.  Re- 
peat that  word  to  me ;  say  it  for  me,  for  me  alone. " 

"What  word?" 

"You  were  with  the  Signor  Arciprete,  the  parish 
priest,  I  was  in  the  next  room  with  the  servant,  and 
the  door  was  open.  You  said  that  a  man  may 
deny  the  existence  of  God  without  really  being  an 
atheist  or  deserving  eternal  death,  if  that  God, 


234  The  Saint 

whose  existence  he  denies,  be  placed  before  him  in 
a  shape  repugnant  to  his  intellect,  and  if  he  love 
Truth,  Virtue,  and  his  fellow-men,  and  by  his  life 
give  proof  of  his  love. " 

Benedetto  was  silent.  Yes,  he  had  said  this,  but 
to  a  priest,  and  not  knowing  another  person  (per- 
haps one  not  capable  of  understanding)  was  listen- 
ing. She  guessed  the  cause  of  his  silence. 

"  I  am  not  the  person  in  question, "  she  said.  "  I 
believe ;  I  am  a  Catholic.  It  was  my  father,  who 
lived  and  died  thus;  and — only  think  of  it — they 
have  persuaded  even  my  mother  that  he  cannot  be 
saved. " 

While  she  was  speaking,  amidst  the  lightning 
and  the  thunder,  large,  slow  drops  began  to  beat 
upon  the  road,  making  great  spots  in  the  dust, 
hissing  through  the  air,  lashing  against  the  walls. 
But  Benedetto  did  not  seek  shelter  inside  the  door, 
nor  did  she  invite  him  to  do  so ;  and  this  was  the 
only  confession  on  her  part,  of  the  profound  senti- 
ment, which  covered  itself  with  a  cloak  of  mysti- 
cism and  filial  piety. 

"Tell  me,  tell  me!"  she  begged,  raising  her  eyes 
at  last.  "Say  that  my  father  is  saved,  that  I 
shall  meet  him  in  Paradise!" 

Benedetto  answered: 

"Pray!" 

"My  God!     Only  that?" 

"  Do  we  pray  for  the  pardon  of  such  as  may  not 
be  pardoned?  Pray!" 

"Oh!    Thank  you!— Are  you  ill?" 


The  Saint  235 

These  last  words  were  whispered  so  softly  that  it 
was  possible  Benedetto  did  not  hear  them.  He 
made  a  gesture  of  farewell,  and  started  on,  in  the 
driving  rain,  that  lashed  and  pushed  the  little  dead, 
wild  rose  away,  into  the  mud. 

Either  from  a  window,  or  from  the  door  of  the 
inn,  where  she  was,  with  the  sick  girl  of  Arcinazzo, 
Noemi  saw  him  pass.  She  borrowed  an  umbrella 
from  the  innkeeper,  and  followed  him,  braving  the 
wind  and  the  rain. 

She  followed  him,  distressed  at  seeing  him  bare- 
headed and  without  an  umbrella,  and  reflecting  that 
if  he  were  not  a  Saint,  one  would  think  him  insane. 
On  entering  the  square  where  the  church  stands, 
she  saw  a  door  on  the  right  open  a  little  way ;  a  tall, 
thin  priest  looked  out.  She  believed  the  priest 
would  invite  Benedetto  to  come  in,  but,  to  Noemi 's 
great  vexation,  whenBenedetto  was  quite  near  him, 
the  priest  closed  the  door  noisily.  Benedetto  enter- 
ed the  church  of  Sant'  Andrea ;  she  went  in  also.  He 
approached  the  high  altar  and  knelt  down,  while 
she  remained  near  the  door.  The  sacristan,  who 
was  dozing,  seated  on  the  steps  of  an  altar,  heard 
them  enter,  and,  rising,  went  towards  Benedetto. 
But  he  belonged  to  the  Roman  priest's  party,  and, 
recognising  the  heretic,  turned  back,  and  asked  the 
foreign  signorina  if  she  could  tell  him  anything 
about  the  sick  man  from  Arcinazzo,  who  had  been 
brought  to  the  church  that  morning,  when  the 
sacristan  had  also  seen  her  there.  He  added  that 


236  The  Saint 

his  reason  for  inquiring  was,  that  he  had  been 
ordered  to  wait  for  the  parish  priest,  who  was  going 
to  carry  the  viaticum  to  the  man.  Noemi  knew 
that  the  young  man  from  Arcinazzo  was  dying, 
but  that  was  all. 

"I  see,"  said  the  sacristan,  raising  his  voice 
intentionally.  "He  probably  does  not  wish  for 
Christ.  These  are  their  fine  miracles !  Thank  God 
for  the  thunder  and  lightning,  for  had  it  not  been 
for  the  storm,  they  would  have  brought  the  girl 
here!" 

Then  he  went  back  to  rest  and  doze  on  the  steps. 

Noemi  could  not  turn  her  eyes  away  from  Bene- 
detto. It  was  not  a  fascination  in  the  true  sense 
of  the  word,  nor  was  it  the  passionate  sentiment  of 
the  young  schoolmistress.  She  saw  him  sway, 
rest  his  hands  on  the  steps  and  then  turn  with 
difficulty  and  sit  down ;  and  she  did  not  ask  herself 
if  he  were  suffering.  She  gazed  at  him,  but  was 
more  absorbed  in  herself  than  in  him,  absorbed  in 
a  gradual  change  which  was  taking  place  within 
her,  and  which  was  making  her  different,  making 
her  irrecognisable  to  herself;  a  still  confused  and 
blind  sense  of  immense  truth,  which  was  being 
borne  in  upon  her,  in  mysterious  ways,  and  which 
strained  painfully  at  the  innermost  fibres  of  her 
heart.  Her  brother-in-law's  religious  arguments 
might  have  troubled  her  mind,  but  they  had  never 
touched  her  heart.  Why  was  it  touched  now? 
And  how?  What  had  that  pale,  emaciated  man 
said,  after  all?  Ah!  but  the  look,  the  voice,  the — 


The  Saint  237 

what  else?  Something  it  was  impossible  to  grasp. 
Perhaps  a  presentiment — But  of  what?  Ma!  Chi 
sd?  Who  knows  ?  A  presentiment  of  some  future 
bond  between  this  man  and  herself.  She  had  fol- 
lowed him,  had  entered  the  church  that  she  might 
not  lose  the  opportunity  of  speaking  to  him,  and 
now  she  was  almost  afraid  of  him.  And  then  to 
talk  to  him  of  Jeanne!  Had  Jeanne  understood 
him?  How  had  Jeanne,  loving  him,  been  able  to 
resist  the  current  of  higher  thought  which  was  in 
him,  which  perhaps,  at  that  time,  was  latent,  but 
which  a  Jeanne  should  have  felt?  What  had  she 
loved?  The  lower  man?  If  she,  Noemi,  spoke 
with  him,  she  would  speak  not  only  of  Jeanne,  but 
of  religion  also.  She  would  ask  him  what  his  own 
religion  really  was.  And  then  what  if  he  should 
answer  something  foolish,  something  common- 
place? For  this  reason  she  was  almost  afraid  to 
speak  to  him. 

A  dash  of  rain  splashed  through  a  broken  win- 
dow upon  the  pavement.  It  seemed  to  Noemi  she 
could  never  forget  that  hour,  that  great  empty 
church,  that  dark  sky,  that  dash  of  rain  like  falling 
tears,  that  world's  outcast  on  the  steps  of  the  high 
altar,  absorbed  in  what  sublime  thoughts  God 
alone  knew,  and  the  sacristan,  his  enemy,  who  had 
gone  to  sleep  on  the  steps  of  another  altar,  with  the 
easy  familiarity  of  a  colleague  of  the  Almighty. 
Some  time  elapsed,  perhaps  an  hour,  perhaps  more. 
The  church  grew  lighter;  the  rain  seemed  to  be 
stopping.  It  struck  four  o'clock.  Don  Clemente 


238  The  Saint 

entered  the  church,  followed  by  Maria  and  Giovanni 
who  were  glad  to  find  Noemi  there,  for  they  had  not 
known  where  she  was.  The  sacristan,  who  knew 
Don  Clemente,  came  forward. 

" Dunque?    The  viaticum?" 

The  viaticum?  Alas,  the  man  was  dead;  they 
had  thought  of  the  viaticum  too  late!  The  Padre 
inquired  for  Benedetto,  and  Noemi  pointed  to 
where  he  sat.  They  spoke  of  the  interview  which 
Noemi  desired.  Don  Clemente  blushed  and  hesi- 
tated, but  could  not  refuse  to  ask  for  it,  and  he 
went  to  join  Benedetto. 

While  the  two  conversed,  Giovanni  and  Maria 
related  to  Noemi  all  that  had  taken  place.  After 
the  arrival  of  the  parish  priest,  the  sick  man  had 
not  spoken  again.  Confession  had  not  been  possi- 
ble. Meanwhile  the  storm  had  burst  with  such 
violence  as  to  render  it  impossible  for  the  priest  to 
go  for  the  holy  oil.  They  had  thought  the  sick 
man  would  live  some  hours  longer,  but  at  three 
o'clock  he  had  expired.  As  soon  as  the  torrents  of 
rain  would  permit,  Don  Clemente  and  the  priest 
had  gone  out,  but  Giovanni  and  Maria  had  re- 
mained with  the  mother  until  the  arrival  of  the 
dead  man's  elder  sister;  the  mother  seemed  to 
have  quite  lost  her  senses.  Then  they  also  had 
left,  to  go  in  search  of  Noemi.  Not  finding  her  at 
the  inn,  they  had  started  for  the  church.  In  the 
square  they  had  met  the  Padre,  coming  out  of  one 
of  the  best  houses.  They  did  not  know  what 
errand  had  taken  him  there.  Maria  spoke  enthusi- 


The  Saint  239 

astically  of  Benedetto,  of  his  spiritual  ministra- 
tions to  the  dying  man.  She  and  her  husband 
were  very  indignant  at  the  war  which  had  been 
waged  against  him  by  people  who  would  now 
find  no  difficulty  in  turning  the  whole  town  against 
him.  They  censured  the  parish  priest's  weakness, 
and  were  not  satisfied  with  Don  Clemente  himself. 
He  should  not  have  aided  in  driving  his  disciple 
away.  Why  had  he  been  the  one  to  tell  him  to 
leave,  when  the  parish  priest  came?  His  first 
mistake  had  been  in  bringing  the  Abbot's  message. 
Noemi  knew  nothing  of  this  message.  When  she 
heard  that  Benedetto  was  to  be  deprived  of  his 
habit  her  indignation  burst  forth :  Benedetto  must 
not  obey. 

Meanwhile  the  Padre  and  his  disciple  were  ap- 
proaching the  door.  Benedetto  stood  apart  while 
the  Padre  came  to  tell  the  Selvas  and  Noemi  that 
as  several  persons  wished  to  speak  with  Benedetto, 
he  had  arranged  that  they  should  see  him  at  the 
house  of  a  gentleman  of  the  town.  He  must  now 
take  Benedetto  there,  but  in  a  few  minutes  he 
would  return  to  the  church  for  them. 

The  gentleman  was  the  same  person  the  Selvas 
had  met  on  the  hillside  of  Jenne,  where  he  was 
awaiting  the  Duchess  di  Civitella.  The  Duchess 
had  arrived  shortly  after,  with  two  other  ladies 
and  several  gentlemen,  among  them  a  journalist, 
and  the  young  man  of  the  eye-glass.  The  citizen 
of  Jenne  was  beside  himself  with  satisfaction;  on 


240  The  Saint 

that  day  he  was  in  a  truly  ducal  state  of  gracious- 
ness  and  magnificence  I  Therefore,  when  Don 
Clemente — following  the  parish  priest's  advice — 
appealed  to  him,  he  had  no  difficulty  in  obtaining 
from  him  the  promise  of  an  old  suit  of  black,  a 
black  tie,  and  a  broad  brimmed  black  hat,  for 
Benedetto. 

In  the  room  where  the  secular  clothes  were 
spread  out,  the  disciple,  having  removed  his 
habit,  began  to  put  them  on  in  silence,  and  his 
master,  who  was  standing  at  the  window,  could 
not  repress  a  sob.  Presently  Benedetto  called 
softly  to  him. 

"Padre  mio,"  said  he,  "look  at  me!" 

Arrayed  in  the  new  clothes,  which  were  too  long 
and  too  large  for  him,  he  smiled,  showing  himself 
at  peace.  The  Padre  seized  his  hand,  intending 
to  kiss  it,  but  Benedetto  caught  it  hastily  away, 
and  opening  his  arms,  pressed  to  his  breast  the 
man  who  now  seemed  the  younger,  the  son,  the 
penitent  instrument  of  shameful  human  persecu- 
tions, which,  upon  that  heart,  beating  with  divine 
fire,  turned  to  dust,  to  ashes,  and  vanished  I 
They  stood  a  long  time  thus,  locked  in  a  silent 
embrace. 

"  I  did  it  for  your  sake, "  Don  Clemente  mur- 
mured at  last.  "  I  myself  brought  the  humiliating 
message,  that  I  might  see  the  grace  of  the  Lord 
shine,  in  this  humble  dress,  even  brighter  than  in 
the  habit." 

Benedetto  interrupted  him. 


The  Saint  241 

"  No,  no! "  said  he.  "  Do  not  tempt  me,  do  not 
tempt  me!  Let  us  rather  thank  God,  who  is 
chastening  me  for  that  presumptuous  joy  I 
experienced  at  Santa  Scolastica,  when  you  offered 
me  the  Benedictine  habit,  and  I  reflected  that  in 
my  vision,  I  had  seen  myself  dying  in  that  dress. 
My  heart  was  uplifted  as  if  crying  out:  'I  am 
beloved  indeed  of  God ! '  And  now — 

"Ah!  but — !"  the  Padre  exclaimed,  and 
then  stopped  suddenly,  his  face  suffused  with 
colour.  Benedetto  believed  he  understood  what 
was  in  his  mind :  "  It  is  not  said  that  you  may  not 
sometime  resume  the  habit  you  have  just  laid 
aside!  It  is  not  said  that  the  vision  may  not  yet 
come  true!"  He  had  not  wished  to  utter  this 
thought,  either  from  prudence,  or  in  order  not 
to  allude  to  Benedetto's  death.  He  smiled  and 
embraced  his  master.  The  Padre  hastened  to 
speak  of  other  things ;  he  apologised  for  the  parish 
priest,  who  was  much  grieved  by  what  was  happen- 
ing, and  would  not  have  sent  Benedetto  away,  had 
he  not  feared  his  superiors.  He  was  not  a  Don 
Abbondio1 ;  he  did  not  fear  for  himself,  but  dreaded 
the  scandal  of  a  conflict  with  the  authorities. 

"I  forgive  him,"  said  Benedetto,  "and  I  pray 
God  to  forgive  him,  but  this  lack  of  moral  cour- 
age is  a  great  evil  in  the  Church.  Many,  rather 
than  contend  against  their  superiors,  will  contend 
against  God  Himself.  And  they  rid  themselves  of 

>  Don  Abbondio — a  priest  in  Mazzoni's  work  I  Promessi 
Sposi.  (Translator's  Note.) 


242  The  Saint 

all  responsibility  by  substituting  their  superiors' 
conscience  to  their  own  wherein  God  speaks. 
They  do  not  comprehend  that  by  striving  against 
what  is  good,  or  by  refraining  from  striving  against 
what  is  evil,  in  obedience  to  superiors,  they  give 
scandal  to  the  world,  they  stain  the  Christian 
character  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  They  do  not 
comprehend  that  both  their  duty  toward  God 
and  their  duty  toward  their  superiors  may  be 
fulfilled,  by  never  striving  against  what  is  good, 
by  never  refraining  from  striving  against  what  is 
evil,  by  never  judging  their  superiors,  by  obeying 
them  with  perfect  obedience  in  everything  that  is 
neither  opposed  to  what  is  good  nor  in  favour 
of  what  is  evil,  by  laying  even  life  itself  at  their 
feet,  but  not  their  conscience;  their  conscience, 
never!  Thus  the  Inferior,  stripped  of  everything 
save  conscience  and  just  obedience,  becomes  a 
pure  grain  of  the  salt  of  the  earth,  and  where 
many  such  grains  are  united,  that  to  which  they 
adhere  will  be  saved  from  corruption,  and  that  to 
whick  thev  do  not  adhere,  will  rot  and  fall  to 
pieces! " 

As  he  talked  Benedetto  became  transfigured. 
With  the  last  words  he  rose  to  his  feet.  His  eyes 
flashed,  his  brow  shone  with  the  august  light  of  the 
spirit  of  Truth.  He  placed  his  hands  on  Don 
Clemente's  shoulders. 

"Dear  Master,"  he  said,  his  face  softening,  "  I  am 
leaving  the  roof,  the  bread,  the  habit  which  were 
offered  me.  but  while  I  have  life,  I  will  not  cease 


The  Saint  243 

telling  of  Christ,  who  is  the  Truth!  I  go  forth, 
but  not  to  remain  silent.  Do  you  remember 
giving  me  the  letter  to  read,  that  St.  Peter  Damian 
wrote  to  a  layman,  who  preached?  That  man 
preached  in  the  church.  I  will  not  preach  in  the 
church,  but  if  Christ  wish  me  to  speak  in  the 
dwellings  of  the  poor,  I  will  speak  in  the  dwellings 
of  the  poor ;  if  He  wish  me  to  speak  in  the  palace, 
I  will  speak  in  the  palace ;  if  He  wish  me  to  speak 
in  the  cubicles,  I  will  speak  in  the  cubicles ;  if  He 
wish  me  to  speak  on  the  housetops,  I  will  speak 
on  the  housetops.  Think  of  the  man  who 
laboured  in  Christ's  name,  and  was  forbidden  to 
do  so  by  the  disciples.  Christ  said:  'Forbid 
him  not.'  Shall  we  obey  the  disciple  or  shall  we 
obey  Christ?" 

"You  are  right  about  the  man  in  the  Gospel, 
caro,"  Don  Clemente  replied,  "but  remember 
that  one  may  mistake  what  is  really  Christ's  will." 

Don  Clemen te's  heart  did  not  speak  precisely 
thus,  but  the  heart's  imprudent,  undisciplined 
words  were  not  allowed  to  pass  his  lips. 

"After  all,  Padre  mio,"  Benedetto  continued, 
"  believe  me,  I  am  not  banished  because  I  preached 
the  Gospel  to  the  people.  There  are  two  things 
you  must  know.  The  first  is  this.  A  proposal 
was  made  to  me  here  in  Jenne  by  a  person  whom 
I  never  saw  again  after  that  interview,  to  take 
holy  orders,  that  I  might  become  a  missionary.  I 
replied  that  I  did  not  feel  called  to  that  work. 
The  second  incident  is  this.  On  one  of  the  first 


244  The  Saint 

days  after  my  arrival  at  Jenne,  while  talking 
religion  with  the  parish  priest,  I  spoke  of  the 
eternal  vitality  of  Catholic  doctrine,  of  the  power 
which  the  soul  of  Catholic  doctrine  possesses,  of 
continually  transforming  its  own  body,  increasing 
its  strength  and  beauty  unlimitedly.  You  know 
Padre  mio,  from  whom  —  through  you  —  these 
thoughts  came  to  me.  The  parish  priest  must 
have  repeated  my  words,  which  pleased  him. 
The  next  day  he  asked  me  whether  I  had  met 
Selva  at  Subiaco,  and  had  read  his  books.  He 
said  he  had  not  read  them  himself,  but  he  knew 
they,  were  to  be  avoided.  Padre  mio,  you  will 
understand  now.  It  is  on  account  of  Signer 
Selva,  and  of  your  friendship  for  him,  that  I  am 
leaving  Jenne  thus.  I  have  never  loved  you  as 
I  love  you  now.  I  do  not  know  whither  I 
shall  wander,  but  wherever  the  Lord  may  send 
me,  be  it  far  or  near,  do  not  let  your  soul  forsake 
me!" 

As  he  spoke  these  words,  his  voice  shaking 
with  sorrow  and  love,  Benedetto  again  threw 
himself  into  the  arms  of  his  master,  who — himself 
torn  by  a  tempest  of  conflicting  emotions — knew 
not  whether  to  ask  his  forgiveness,  or  promise 
him  glory,  the  true  glory,  and  could  only  say, 
with  laboured  breath: 

11  You  do  not  know  it,  but  I,  too,  have  need 
that  your  soul  should  not  forsake  me!" 

Touching  it  with  careful,  reverent  hands,  Don 


The  Saint  245 

Clemente  made  the  habit  his  disciple  had  laid 
aside  into  a  bundle.  When  it  was  folded  he 
told  Benedetto  that  he  could  not  offer  him  the 
hospitality  of  Santa  Scolastica;  he  had  in- 
tended asking  Signor  Selva  to  take  him  in,  but 
he  now  doubted  if  it  would  be  opportune  and 
in  the  interests  of  his  mission  for  Benedetto  to  put 
himself  so  openly  under  the  protection  of  Signor 
Giovanni. 

Benedetto  smiled. 

"Oh!  certainly  not!"  said  he.  "Shall  we  fear 
the  darkness  more  than  we  love  the  light?  But 
I  must  pray  God  to  make  His  will  known  to  me, 
if  it  be  possible.  Perhaps  He  desires  that,  perhaps 
something  else.  And  now  will  you  send  me  some 
food  and  a  little  wine?  And  then  let  those  come 
in,  who  wish  to  speak  with  me." 

Don  Clemente  was  secretly  astonished  that 
Benedetto  should  ask  him  for  wine,  but  he  did 
not  allow  his  astonishment  to  appear.  He  said 
he  would  also  send  him  the  young  girl  who 
was  with  the  Selvas.  Benedetto  looked  at  him 
questioningly.  He  remembered  that  when  the 
girl,  whom  he  had  seen  later  in  the  church,  had 
asked  for  an  interview,  Don  Clemente  had  pressed 
his  arm,  as  if  silently  warning  him  to  be  on  his 
guard.  Don  Clemente  grew  very  red  while  he 
explained  his  action.  He  had  seen  the  young 
girl  at  Santa  Scolastica  with  another  person. 
His  movement  had  been  involuntary.  The  other 
person  was  now  far  away. 


246  The  Saint 

"We  shall  not  meet  again,"  said  he,  "because 
as  soon  as  I  have  sent  you  the  food,  and 
spoken  to  these  people,  I  must  start  for  Santa 
Scolastica. 

In  speaking  of  going  to  Subiaco  or  elsewhere, 
Benedetto  had  said  "perhaps  that,  perhaps 
something  else, "  with  an  accent  so  full  of  meaning 
that,  when  Don  Clemente  bade  him  farewell,  he 
murmured: 

"Are  you  thinking  of  Rome?" 

Instead  of  answering,  Benedetto  gently  took 
from  his  hands  the  bundle  containing  the  poor 
tunic,  which  had  been  bestowed  and  then  with- 
drawn, and  with  trembling  hands  raised  it  to 
his  lips,  pressing  them  to  it;  he  let  them  rest  there 
a  long  time. 

Was  it  regret  for  the  days  of  peace,  of  labour, 
of  prayer,  of  gospel  words?  Was  it  the  anticipa- 
tion of  a  luminous  hour  in  the  future? 

He  gave  the  bundle  back  into  his  master's 
hands. 

"Farewell!  "said  he. 

Don  Clemente  hastened  away. 

The  room  the  master  of  the  house  had  set  apart 
for  Benedetto's  use  contained  a  large  sofa;  a  small 
square  table,  covered  with  a  yellowish  cloth,  over 
which  a  blue  floral  pattern  sprawled ;  a  few  shaky 
chairs;  one  or  two  armchairs,  their  stuffing 
showing  through  the  rents  in  the  old  and  faded 
leather;  and  two  portraits  of  bewigged  ancestors 


The  Saint  247 

in  tarnished  frames.  It  had  two  windows,  one 
almost  blinded  by  a  grey  wall,  the  other  open  to 
the  fields,  to  a  lovely,  peaceful  hill,  to  the  sky. 
Before  receiving  his  visitors  Benedetto  approached 
this  window  to  take  a  last  farewell  of  the  fields, 
the  hill,  and  the  poor  town  itself.  Seized  with 
sudden  weakness,  he  leaned  against  the  sill.  It 
was  a  gentle,  pleasant  weakness.  He  was  hardly 
conscious  of  the  weight  of  his  body,  and  his  heart 
was  flooded  with  mystic  beatitude.  Little  by 
little,  as  his  thoughts  became  vague  and  objectless 
he  was  moved  by  a  sense  of  the  quiet,  innocent, 
external  life;  the  drops  falling  from  the  roofs, 
the  air  laden  with  odours  of  the  hills,  stirring 
mysteriously  at  that  hour  and  in  that  place. 
The  memory  of  distant  hours  of  his  early  youth 
came  back  to  him,  of  a  time  when  he  was 
still  unmarried  and  had  no  thought  of  marriage. 
He  recalled  the  close  of  a  thunder  storm  in 
the  upper  Valsolda  on  the  crest  of  the  Pian  Bi- 
scagno.  How  different  his  fate  would  have  been 
had  his  parents  lived  thirty  or  even  twenty  years 
longer!  At  least  one  of  them!  In  his  mind's 
eye  he  saw  the  stone  in  the  cemetery  at  Oria: 

To  FRANCO 

IN  GOD 
His  LUISA; 

and  his  eyes  filled  with  tears.     Then  came  the 


248  The  Saint 

violent  reaction  of  his  will  against  this  soft  langour 
of  the  intellect,  this  temptation  of  weakness. 

"No,  no,  no!"  he  murmured,  half  aloud.  A 
voice  behind  him  answered: 

"You  do  not  wish  to  listen  to  us?" 

Benedetto  turned  round,  surprised.  Three 
young  men  stood  before  him.  He  had  not  heard 
them  enter.  The  one  who  appeared  to  be  the 
eldest,  a  fine-looking  young  fellow,  short  of  stat- 
ure, dark,  with  eyes  speaking  knowledge  of  many 
things,  asked  him  boldly  why  he  had  laid  aside 
the  clerical  dress.  Benedetto  did  not  reply. 

"  You  do  not  wish  to  say  ? "  the  other  exclaimed. 
"  It  does  not  matter,  but  listen  to  us.  We  are 
students  from  the  University  of  Rome,  men  of 
little  faith,  that  I  confess  openly  and  at  once. 
We  are  enjoying  and  making  the  most  of  our 
youth,  that  I  will  also  confess  at  once." 

One  of  his  companions  pulled  a  fold  of  the 
spokesman's  coat. 

"Be  quiet!"  said  the  leader.  "It  is  true  there 
is  one  among  us  who,  though  he  has  no  great 
faith  in  the  saints,  is  very  pure.  He,  however,  is 
not  here  before  you.  There  are  others  missing 
also,  who  are  playing  cards  at  the  tavern.  The 
'Most  Pure'  would  not  come  with  us.  He  says 
he  will  find  a  way  of  speaking  with  you  alone. 
We  are  what  I  have  told  you.  We  came  from 
Rome  for  an  excursion,  and,  if  possible,  to  witness 
a  miracle;  in  fact,  we  came  to  have  some  fun! 

His  companions  interrupted  him,   protesting. 


The  Saint  249 

"Yes,  yes!"  he  repeated,  "to  have  some  fun! 
Excuse  me,  I  speak  frankly.  Indeed  our  fun 
came  near  costing  us  too  dear.  We  joked  a  little 
and  they  wanted  to  knock  us  down,  you  know; 
and  all  to  your  honour  and  glory!  But  then  we 
heard  the  little  speech  you  made  to  that  crowd 
of  fanatics.  'By  the  Lord  Harry,'  we  thought, 
'  this  is  a  new  style  of  language  for  a  priestly  or 
half-priestly  mouth !  This  is  a  saint  who  suits  us 
better  than  the  others!'  Forgive  my  familiarity! 
So  we  at  once  decided  to  ask  you  for  an  interview ; 
because  even  if  we  be  rather  sceptical,  and  fond 
of  worldly  pleasures,  we  are  also  more  or  less 
intellectual,  and  certain  religious  truths  interest 
us.  I  myself,  for  instance,  shall  perhaps  very 
shortly  become  a  Neo-Buddhist." 

His  companions  laughed,  and  he  turned  upon 
them  angrily. 

"Yes  indeed!  I  shall  not  be  a  practical  Bud- 
dhist, but  Buddhism  interests  me  more  than 
Christianity!" 

Then  ensued  an  altercation  among  the  three 
students,  on  account  of  this  inopportune  sally, 
and  a  second  spokesman,  tall,  thin,  and  wearing 
spectacles,  took  the  place  of  the  first.  This  man 
spoke  nervously,  with  frequent  spasmodic  move- 
ments of  the  head  and  stiff  forearms.  His  dis- 
course was  to  the  following  effect.  He  and  his 
companions  had  often  discussed  the  question  of 
the  vitality  of  Catholicism.  They  were  all  con- 
vinced that  it  was  exhausted,  and  that  speedy 


250  The  Saint 

death  could  be  prevented  only  by  radical  reform. 
Some  considered  such  a  reform  possible,  while 
others  did  not.  They  were  anxious  to  have  the 
opinion  of  an  intelligent  and  modern-spirited 
Catholic  such  as  Benedetto  had  shown  himself. 
They  had  many  questions  to  ask  him. 

At  this  point  the  third  ambassador  of  the 
party  of  students,  feeling  that  his  turn  had  come, 
poured  out  upon  Benedetto  a  disordered  stream 
of  questions. 

Did  he  feel  disposed  to  become  the  champion  of 
a  reform  in  the  Church?  Did  he  believe  in  the 
infallibility  of  the  Pope,  of  the  Council?  Did  he 
approve  of  the  worship  of  the  Virgin  Mary  and  of 
the  saints  in  its  present  form  ?  Was  he  a  Chris- 
tian Democrat?  What  were  his  views  concerning 
the  desired  reform?  They  had  seen  Giovanni 
Selva  at  Jenne.  Was  Benedetto  acquainted 
with  his  works?  Did  he  approve  of  cardinals 
being  forbidden  to  go  out  on  foot,  and  of  priests 
not  being  allowed  to  ride  a  bicycle?  What  was 
his  opinion  of  the  Bible,  and  what  did  he  believe 
concerning  its  inspiration? 

Before  -answering,  Benedetto  looked  steadily 
and  severely  at  his  young  interlocutor. 

"A  physician,"  he  began  at  last,  "was  reputed 
to  be  able  to  cure  all  diseases.  A  man,  who  did 
not  believe  in  medicine,  went  to  him  out  of 
curiosity,  to  question  him  about  his  art,  his  stud- 
ies, his  opinions.  The  physician  let  him  talk  on 
for  some  time;  then  he  took  his  wrist,  thus." 


The  Saint  251 

Benedetto  took  the  wrist  of  the  one  who  had 
spoken  first,  and  continued. 

"He  took  it,  and  held  it  a  moment  in  silence; 
then  he  said  to  him,  'My  friend,  your  heart  is 
affected.  I  read  it  first  in  your  face,  and  now  I 
feel  the  hammering  of  the  carpenter  who  is  making 
your  coffin!"1 

The  young  man  whose  pulse  he  was  pressing 
could  not  refrain  from  wincing. 

"I  do  not  mean  you,"  said  Benedetto.  "The 
physician  was  speaking  to  the  man  who  does  not 
believe  in  medicine.  And  he  continued  thus : 
'Do  you  come  to  me  for  health  and  life?  I  will 
give  you  both.  Are  you  not  come  for  that? 
Then  I  have  no  time  for  you!'  The  man,  who 
had  always  believed  himself  to  be  well,  turned 
pale,  and  said.  '  Master,  I  place  myself  in  your 
hands;  give  me  life!  " 

The  three  students  stood  for  a  moment  dum- 
founded.  When  they  showed  signs  of  coming 
to  their  senses,  and  of  wishing  to  answer,  Bene- 
detto continued: 

"  If  three  blind  men  ask  me.for  my  lamp  of  truth 
what  shall  I  reply?  I  shall  reply,  'First  go  and 
prepare  your  eyes  for  it,  because,  should  I  give 
it  unto  your  hands  now,  you  would  receive  no 
light  from  it,  and  you  would  only  break  it."1 

"I  hope,"  said  the  tall,  lean,  bespectacled 
student,  "  that  in  order  to  see  your  lamp  of  truth 
it  may  not  be  necessary  to  shut  out  the  light  of 
the  sun.  But,  after  all,  I  can  easily  understand 


252  The  Saint 

that  you  do  not  wish  to  explain  yourself  to  us, 
whom  you  believe  to  be  reporters.  To-day  we 
are  not — or  at  least  I  am  not — in  the  state  of  mind 
you  desire.  I  may  be  blind,  but  I  do  not  feel 
inclined  to  ask  the  Pope  for  light,  or  a  Luther 
either.  Nevertheless,  if  you  come  to  Rome,  you 
will  find  young  men  better  disposed  than  I  am, 
than  we  are.  Come,  speak,  let  us  also  listen  to 
you!  To-day  it  is  curiosity  with  us,  to-morrow, 
who  knows  ?  we  may  feel  the  right  spirit.  Come 
to  Rome!  " 

"Give  me  your  name,"  said  Benedetto. 

The  other  offered  him  his  card.  His  name 
was  Elia  Viterbo.  Benedetto  looked  at  him 
curiously. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  he  said,  "I  am  a  Jew;  but 
these  two  baptised  ones  are  no  better  Christians 
than  I  am.  I  have,  moreover,  no  religious 
prejudices." 

The  interview  was  over.  As  they  were  leaving, 
the  youngest  of  the  party,  the  man  of  the  stream 
of  questions,  made  a  last  onslaught. 

"  Tell  us,  at  least,  if  you  believe  Catholics  should 
vote  on  political  questions?" 

Benedetto  was  silent.     The  other  insisted: 

"  Will  you  not  answer  even  that  question?" 

Benedetto  smiled. 

"  Non  expedit, "  said  he. 

There  were  steps  in  the  ante-room ;  two  gentle 
taps  at  the  door;  the  Selvas  entered  with  Noemi. 


The  Saint  253 

Maria  Selva  came  in  first,  and  seeing  Benedetto 
dressed  thus,  could  not  restrain  a  movement  of 
indignation,  of  regret,  and  a  soft  laugh ;  then  she 
blushed  and  wished  to  speak  a  word  of  protest, 
but  could  not  find  the  right  one.  The  tears  came 
to  Noemi's  eyes.  All  four  were  silent  for  a 
moment  and  understood  each  other.  Then  Gio- 
vanni murmured : 

"  '  Non  fu  dal  vel  del  cuor  giammai  disciolto1 " 1; 

and  pressed  the  hand  of  him  who  in  his  awkward 
garments  still  appeared  august  to  him. 

"But  you  must  not  wear  these  things!"  ex- 
claimed Maria,  less  mystic  than  her  husband. 

Benedetto  made  a  gesture  which  said,  "Let 
us  not  speak  of  that,"  and  looked  at  the  master 
of  his  master  with  eyes  full  of  longing  and 
reverence. 

"Are  you  aware,"  said  he,  "how  much  truth 
and  how  much  good  have  come  to  me  from  you?" 

Giovanni  did  not  know  how  strongly  he  had 
influenced  this  man  through  Don  Clemente.  He 
supposed  he  had  read  his  books.  He  was  moved, 
and  in  his  heart  thanked  God,  who  was  thus 
gently  showing  him  that  he  had  worked  some 
real  good  in  a  soul. 

"  How  happy  I  should  have  been, "  Benedetto 
continued,  "to  have  worked  in  your  garden,  to 

«  "  Of  the  heart's  veil  she  never  was  divested." 
DANTE'S  Paradiso,  Canto  iii. 

(Longfellow's  translation.) 


254  The  Saint 

have  sometimes  seen  you,  to  have  heard  you 
speak! " 

A  stifled  exclamation  escaped  Noemi  when 
reminded  of  that  evening  full  of  memories  she 
could  not  express.  Giovanni  took  this  opportunity 
of  offering  hospitality  to  Benedetto,  Don  Clemente 
having  told  him  he  intended  leaving  Jenne  that 
night.  They  could  leave  together,  if  he  wished, 
after  the  interview  which  he  was  going  to  grant 
Giovanni's  sister-in-law.  Noemi,  very  pale,  looked 
fixedly  at  Benedetto  for  the  first  time,  awaiting 
his  answer. 

"  I  thank  you, "  said  he.  "  If  I  knock  at  your 
door,  you  will  throw  it  open  to  me.  I  can  say 
no  more  at  present. " 

Giovanni  and  his  wife  prepared  to  leave.  Bene- 
detto begged  them  to  remain.  Surely  the  Signorina 
had  no  secrets  from  them;  at  least  not  from  her 
sister,  if  perhaps  from  her  brother-in-law.  Even 
this  indirect  appeal  to  Maria  was  of  no  avail,  for 
Noemi  remarked,  with  much  embarrassment, 
that  these  secrets  were  not  her  own.  The  Selvas 
withdrew. 

Benedetto  remained  standing,  and  did  not 
invite  Noemi  to  be  seated.  He  was  aware  that 
a  friend  of  Jeanne's  stood  before  him,  and  he 
foresaw  what  was  coming — a  message  from  Jeanne. 

"  Signorina?"  said  he. 

His  manner  was  not  discourteous,  but  signified 
clearly,  "The  quicker  the  better." 

Noemi    understood.     She    would    have    been 


The  Saint  255 

offended  had  another  person  acted  thus ;  but  with 
Benedetto  she  was  not  offended.  With  him  she 
felt  humble. 

"  I  have  been  requested  to  ask  you, "  she  began, 
"whether  you  know  anything  about  a  person  with 
whom  you  must  have  been  intimately  acquainted, 
whom,  I  believe,  you  also  loved  very  dearly?  I 
am  not  sure  I  pronounce  the  name  correctly,  I 
am  not  an  Italian.  It  is  Don  Giuseppe  Flores." 

Benedetto  started.     He  had  not  expected  this. 

"No!"  he  exclaimed  anxiously,  "I  know 
nothing." 

Nomei  gazed  at  him  a  moment  in  silence. 
Before  continuing  she  would  have  liked  to  ask 
his  forgiveness  for  the  pain  she  was  about  to  cause 
him.  She  said  sadly  and  in  a  low  tone: 

"  Some  one  has  written  to  me  to  tell  you  that  he 
is  no  longer  of  this  world." 

Benedetto  bowed  his  head,  and  hid  his  face 
in  his  hands.  Don  Giuseppe,  dear  Don  Giuseppe ; 
dear,  great,  pure  soul;  dear  luminous  brow,  dear 
eyes,  full  of  God,  dear,  kind  voice!  Softly  came 
two  tears,  which  Noemi  did  not  see ;  then  he  heard 
Don  Giuseppe's  voice  saying  within  him,  "  Do  you 
not  feel  that  I  am  here,  that  I  am  with  you,  that 
I  am  in  your  heart?" 

After  a  long  silence  Noemi  said  softly : 

"  Forgive  me !  I  am  sorry  I  was  obliged  to  cause 
you  so  much  pain." 

Benedetto  raised  his  head. 

"  Pain,  and  still  not  pain, "  said  he. 


256  The  Saint 

Noemi  maintained  a  reverent  silence.  Bene- 
detto asked  if  she  knew  when  this  person  had 
passed  away. 

Towards  the  end  of  April,  she  believed.  She 
was  absent  from  Italy  at  the  time.  She  was  H 
Belgium,  at  Bruges,  with  a  friend  to  whom  the 
news  had  been  sent.  She  had  understood  from 
her  friend  that  that  person — a  sense  of  delicacy 
prevented  Noemi  from  pronouncing  the  name — 
had  died  a  very  holy  death.  She  had  also  been 
asked  to  say  that  his  papers  had  been  entrusted 
to  the  bishop  of  the  city.  Benedetto  made  a 
gesture  of  approval  which  might  also  serve  to 
close  the  interview.  Noemi  did  not  move. 

"  I  have  not  yet  finished, "  she  said,  and  hastened 
to  add: 

"I  have  a  Catholic  friend — I  myself  am  not  a 
Catholic,  I  am  a  Protestant — who  has  lost  her 
faith  in  God.  She  has  been  advised  to  devote 
herself  to  deeds  of  charity.  She  lives  with  her 
brother,  who  is  very  hostile  to  all  religions.  This 
innovation,  the  fact  that  his  sister  interests  herself 
in  charities,  that  she  associates  with  people  who 
promote  good  works  from  religious  principles, 
is  most  displeasing  to  him.  At  present  he  is  ill; 
he  becomes  irritated,  excited,  protests  against 
these  virtuous  bigots,  does  not  wish  his  sister  to 
visit  the  poor,  to  protect  young  girls,  or  to  provide 
for  abandoned  children.  He  says  all  these  things 
are  clericalism,  are  utopianism,  that  the  world 
wags  in  its  own  way,  and  that  it  must  be  allowed 


The  Saint  257 

to  wag  in  its  own  way,  that  all  this  associating 
with  the  lower  classes  only  serves  to  put  false  and 
dangerous  ideas  into  their  heads.  Now,  my 
friend  has  been  told  that  she  must  either  leave 
her  brother,  or  lie  to  him,  by  doing  secretly  what 
she  has  hitherto  done  openly.  She  is  in  sore  need 
of  sound  advice !  She  writes  to  me  to  ask  you  for 
it.  She  has  read  in  the  newspapers  that  you 
are  helping  so  many  here  in  these  hills,  and  she 
hopes  you  will  not  refuse." 

"  As  her  brother  is  ill,  both  bodily  and  mentally," 
Benedetto  answered,  "does  she  not  find  deeds 
of  charity  to  perform  in  her  own  house?  Will 
she  arrive  at  a  knowledge  of  God  by  becoming  a 
bad  sister?  Let  her  give  up  her  works  of  charity 
and  devote  herself  to  her  brother;  let  her  attend 
to  his  bodily  ills,  and  to  his  moral  ills,  with  all  the 
affection" — he  was  going  to  say  "which  she  bears 
him,"  but  he  corrected  himself,  that  he  might 
not  thus  clearly  admit  a  knowledge  of  the  person— 
"with  all  the  affection  of  which  she  is  capable; 
let  her  make  herself  precious  to  him ;  let  her  win 
him  by  degrees,  without  sermons,  by  her  goodness 
alone.  It  will  do  her  much  good  also,  this  striving 
to  incarnate  in  herself  true  goodness,  active, 
untiring,  patient,  prudent  goodness.  And  she 
will  win  him,  little  by  little,  without  words;  she 
will  persuade  him  that  all  she  does  is  well  done. 
Then  she  can  take  up  her  works  of  charity  again, 
take  them  up  alone,  and  she  will  succeed  better. 
Now  she  performs  them  because  she  has  been 
17 


258  The  Saint 

advised  to  do  so,  and  perhaps  she  does  not  succeed 
very  well.  Then  she  will  be  prompted  by  the 
habit  of  goodness,  acquired  with  her  brother,  and 
she  will  have  better  success." 

"I  thank  you!"  said  Noemi.  "I  thank  you 
for  my  friend,  and  also  for  myself,  for  I  am  much 
pleased  with  what  you  have  said.  And  may  I 
repeat  your  advice,  your  words  of  encouragement, 
in  your  name?" 

The  question  seemed  superfluous,  because  the 
words  of  encouragement  and  advice  had  been 
spoken  by  Benedetto  in  direct  answer  to  the  friend. 
But  Benedetto  was  troubled.  It  was  an  explicit 
message  which  Noemi  asked  of  him  for  Jeanne. 

"Who  am  I?"  he  said.  "What  authority  do  I 
possess?  Tell  her  I  will  pray!" 

Noemi  was  trembling  inwardly.  It  would  have 
been  so  easy  now  to  speak  to  him  of  religion! 
And  she  did  not  dare.  Ah!  but  to  lose  such  an 
opportunity!  No,  she  must  speak;  but  she  could 
not  reflect  a  quarter  of  an  hour  upon  what  she 
should  say.  She  said  the  first  thing  that  came 
into  her  head. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  as  you  speak  of  pray- 
ing, I  should  like  to  ask  you  if  you  really  approve 
of  all  my  brother-in-law's  religious  views?" 

As  soon  as  she  had  uttered  the  question,  it 
seemed  to  her  so  impertinent,  so  awkward,  that 
she  was  ashamed.  She  hastened  to  add,  conscious 
she  was  saying  something  still  more  foolish,  but, 
nevertheless,  feeling  impelled  to  say  it. 


The  Saint  259 

"  Because  my  brother-in-law  is  a  Catholic,  and 
I  am  a  Protestant,  and  I  should  like  to  know 
what  to  believe." 

"Signorina, "  Benedetto  answered,  "the  day 
will  come  when  all  shall  worship  the  Father  in 
spirit  and  in  truth,  upon  the  hilltops;  to-day  it  is 
best  to  worship  Him  in  the  shadows,  in  figures, 
from  deep  valleys.  Many  there  are  who  can  rise, 
some  higher  than  others,  towards  the  spirit  and 
the  truth;  but  many  cannot.  There  are  plants 
which  bear  no  fruit  above  a  certain  altitude,  and 
if  carried  still  higher,  they  die.  It  would  be  folly 
to  remove  them  from  the  climate  which  suits 
them.  I  do  not  know  you,  and  I  cannot  say  if 
your  brother-in-law's  religious  views,  planted 
without  preparation  in  you,  would  bear  good 
fruit.  But  I  advise  you  to  study  Catholicism 
carefully,  with  Signer  Selva's  help;  for  there  is 
not  one  conscientious  Protestant  who  knows  it 
well." 

"You  will  not  come  to  Subiaco?"  Noemi 
inquired  timidly. 

A  note  of  hidden  melancholy  rang  in  her  voice, 
and  aroused  in  Benedetto's  heart  a  sense  of  sweet 
pain,  which  at  once  turned  to  fear,  so  new  was  it. 

"No,"  said  he,  "I  think  not." 

Noemi  wished,  and  still  did  not  wish  to  say 
she  was  sorry.  She  pronounced  some  confused 
words. 

They  heard  some  one  in  the  ante-room.  Noemi 
bowed,  and  Benedetto  doing  the  same,  the 


a6o  The  Saint 

interview  came  to  an  end,  without  any  further 
leave  taking. 

The  Duchess  also  was  anxious  to  speak  with 
Benedetto.  She  brought  her  companions,  both 
male  and  female,  with  her.  No  longer  young, 
but  still  frivolous,  half  superstitious,  half  sceptical, 
egotistical  but  not  heartless,  she  was  devoted  to 
the  consumptive  daughter  of  her  old  coachman. 
Having  heard  of  the  Saint  of  Jenne  and  his  miracles, 
she  had  arranged  this  excursion,  partly  for  amuse- 
ment, partly  to  satisfy  her  curiosity,  and  she 
wished  to  ascertain  if  it  would  be  wiser  to  have 
the  Saint  come  to  Rome,  or  to  send  the  girl  to 
him.  At  the  house  of  a  cardinal,  her  cousin, 
she  had  become  acquainted  with  one  of  the  priests 
now  staying  at  Jenne.  This  man,  having  met 
her,  had  given  her  his  own  opinion  of  the  Saint, 
announcing  the  downfall  of  his  reputation.  But, 
as  the  Duchess  had  little  confidence  in  any  priest, 
and  was  curious  to  know  a  man  to  whom  such  a 
romantic  past  was  attributed,  and  as  her  com- 
panions— one  woman  in  particular — shared  her 
curiosity  she  resolved,  at  any  cost,  to  find  a 
means  of  approaching  him. 

An  elderly,  English  gentlewoman  was  of  her 
party;  a  lady  famous  for  her  wealth  and  her 
peculiar  toilettes,  for  her  theosophic  and  Christian 
mysticism,  metaphysically  in  love  with  the  Pope 
and  also  with  the  Duchess  who  laugjied  at  her 
friends.  These  friends,  on  beholding  Benedetto 


The  Saint  261 

in  that  strange  outfit,  exchanged  glances  and 
smiles  which  very  nearly  became  giggles;  but 
the  elderly  Englishwoman  forestalling  them  all 
constituted  herself  their  spokeswoman.  She  said, 
in  bad  French,  that  she  was  aware  she  was  speak- 
ing to  a  man  of  culture,  that  she,  with  her  friends, 
of  both  sexes  and  of  all  nationalities,  was  working 
to  unite  all  Christian  Churches  under  the  Pope, 
reforming  Catholicism  in  certain  particulars 
which  were  really  too  absurd,  and  which  no 
one  honestly  believed  were  of  any  further  uset 
such  particulars  as  ecclesiastical  celibacy  and 
the  dogma  of  hell.  She  needed  a  saint  to  ac- 
complish these  reforms.  Benedetto  would  be 
that  saint,  because  a  spirit  (she  herself  was  not 
a  spiritualist,  but  a  friend  of  hers  was),  the 
spirit  of  the  Countess  Blavatzky  herself,  had 
revealed  this  fact.  It  was  therefore  necessary 
that  he  should  come  to  Rome,  and  there  his  saintly 
gifts  would  also  enable  him  to  render  a  service 
to  the  Duchess  di  Civitella,  here  present.  She 
ended  her  discourse  thus : 

"Nous  vous  attendons  absolmnent,  monsieur! 
Quittez  ce  vilain  trou!  Quittez-le  bientot!  Bientot!' 

Having  let  his  stern  gaze  wander  rapidly  round 
the  circle  of  mocking  or  stolid  faces,  from  the 
Duchess's  lorgnon  to  the  journalist's  eye-glass, 
Benedetto  replied: 

"  A  I  'instant,  madame!" 

And  he  left  the  room. 

He  left  the  room  and  the  house,  crossed  the 


262  The  Saint 

square,  walking  awkwardly  in  his  ill-fitting 
clothes,  and,  without  looking  to  right  or  left,  took 
the  road  leading  down  the  slope,  impelled  by  his 
spirit  rather  than  by  the  weakened  powers  of  his 
body.  He  intended  to  pass  the  night  under  some 
tree,  and,  on  the  morrow,  go  to  Subiaco;  from 
there,  with  Don  Clemente's  aid,  he  would  go  to 
Tivoli,  where  he  knew  a  good  old  priest,  who  was 
in  the  habit  of  coming  to  Santa  Scolastica  from 
time  to  time.  He  no  longer  thought  of  accepting 
the  Selvas'  hospitality,  which  would  have  been 
precious  to  him.  His  heart  was  pure  and  at 
peace,  but  he  could  not  forget  that  the  young 
foreign  girl's  sweet  voice,  and  the  tone  of  sadness 
in  which  she  had  said  "You  will  not  come  to 
Subiaco?"  had  awakened  strange  echoes  within 
him,  and  that  in  that  one  second  the  thought  had 
flashed  across  his  mind :  "  Had  Jeanne  been  like 
this,  I  should  not  have  left  her!"  The  mystics 
were  right ;  penance  and  fasting  were  of  no  avail. 
But  it  had  all  disappeared  now.  Only  the  hu- 
miliating sense  of  a  frailty  essentially  human  re- 
mained, which,  though  it  may  have  come  forth 
triumphant  from  hard  trials,  may  also  reappear 
unexpectedly,  and  be  overthrown  by  a  breath. 
The  little  town  was  deserted.  The  storm  over, 
the  people  from  Trevi,  Filettino,  and  Vallepietra 
had  started  homeward,  discussing  the  events  of 
the  morning,  the  case  of  doubtful  healing,  and 
that  in  which  the  healing  had  not  been  effected, 
the  warnings  which  had  been  swiftly  sown  by 


The  Saint  263 

hidden  hands  against  the  corrupter  of  the  people, 
the  false  Catholic.  On  leaving  the  town  Benedetto 
was  seen  by  two  or  three  women  of  Jenne.  The 
secular  garments  filled  them  with  amazement; 
they  concluded  he  had  been  excommunicated 
and  allowed  him  to  pass  in  silence. 

A  few  steps  beyond,  some  one  who  was  running 
overtook  him.  It  was  a  slender,  fair  lad,  with 
blue  eyes  full  of  intelligence. 

"Are  you  going  to  Rome,  Signor  Maironi?"  he 
said. 

"I  beg  you  not  to  call  me  by  that  name!" 
Benedetto  answered,  ill-pleased  to  find  that  his 
name,  who  knows  by  what  means,  had  been 
revealed.  "I  do  not  yet  know  whether  I  go  to 
Rome." 

"I  shall  follow  you,"  the  young  man  said, 
impulsively. 

"You  will  follow  me?  But  why  should  you 
follow  me?" 

In  reply  the  young  man  took  his  hand,  and, 
in  spite  of  Benedetto's  resistance  and  protests, 
raised  it  to  his  lips. 

"Why?"  said  he.  "Because  I  am  sick  of  the 
world,  and  could  not  find  God,  and  to-day  it 
seems  to  me  that,  through  you,  I  have  been 
born  to  happiness!  Please,  please,  let  me  follow 
you!" 

"Caro  [dear  one];  "  Benedetto  replied,  greatly 
moved,  "  I  myself  do  not  know  whither  I  shall  go!" 

The  young  man  entreated  him  to  say,  at  least, 


264  The  Saint 

«• 

when  he  should  see  him  again,  and  exclaimed, 
seeing  Benedetto  really  did  not  know  what  to 
answer : 

"Oh!  I  shall  see  you  in  Rome!  You  will 
surely  go  to  Rome!" 

Benedetto  smiled: 

"  In  Rome?    And  how  will  you  find  me  there?" 

The  lad  answered  that  he  would  certainly 
be  talked  of  in  Rome,  that  every  one  would  know 
where  to  find  him. 

"If  it  be  God's  will!"  said  Benedetto,  with  an 
affectionate  gesture  of  farewell. 

The  lad  detained  him  a  moment,  holding  his 
hand. 

"I  am  a  Lombard  also,"  said  he.  "I  am 
Alberti,  from  Milan.  Do  not  forget  me! " 

And  his  intense  gaze  followed  Benedetto  until 
he  disappeared  at  a  bend  of  the  mule-path. 

At  sight  of  the  cross  with  its  great  arms,  rising 
on  the  brow  of  the  hill,  Benedetto  suddenly 
shuddered  with  emotion,  and  was  obliged  to  stop. 
When  he  once  more  started  forward  he  was. 
seized  with  giddiness.  Swaying,  he  stepped  aside 
a  few  yards,  leaving  the  way  free  for  passers-by, 
and  sank  upon  the  grass,  in  a  hollow  of  the  field. 
Then,  closing  his  eyes,  he  realised  that  this  was 
no  passing  disturbance,  but  something  far  more 
serious.  He  did  not  become  entirely  unconscious, 
but  he  lost  the  sense  of  hearing  and  of  touch,  his 
memory,  and  all  account  of  time. 


The  Saint  265 

When  he  first  recovered  his  senses,  the  feeling 
on  the  backs  of  his  hands,  of  the  coarse  cloth, 
different  from  that  of  his  usual  habit,  filled  him 
with  a  curiosity,  rather  amused  than  troubled, 
concerning  his  own  identity.  He  felt  his  breast, 
the  buttons,  the  button-holes,  without  under- 
standing. He  thought.  A  boy  from  Jenne,  who 
passed  near  him  in  the  field,  ran  to  the  town  and 
reported  excitedly  that  the  Saint  was  lying  dead 
on  the  grass,  near  the  cross. 

Benedetto  reflected,  with  that  shade  of  cloudy 
reason  which  governs  us  when  we  sleep  and  when 
we  first  awake.  These  were  not  his  clothes. 
They  were  Piero  Maironi's  clothes.  He  was  still 
Piero  Maironi.  This  thought  terrified  him,  and 
he  recovered  his  senses  completely.  He  rose  to  a 
sitting  posture,  looked  at  himself,  looked  about 
him  at  the  field  and  the  hills,  veiled  in  the  shades 
of  evening.  At  sight  of  the  great  cross,  his  mind 
regained  its  composure.  He  felt  ill,  very  ill. 
He  tried  to  rise  to  his  feet,  but  found  it  difficult 
to  do  so.  Directing  his  steps  towards  the  mule- 
path,  he  asked  himself  what  he  should  do  in  that 
condition.  Some  one  coming  swiftly  down  the 
path  from  Jenne  stopped  before  him ;  he  heard 
the  exclamation:  "Oh!  my  God!  it  is  you!" 
He  recognised  the  voice  of  the  woman  who  had 
spoken  so  passionately  to  him  while  the  storm 
was  raging.  She  alone  of  all  those  at  Jenne  who 
had  heard  the  boy's  story  had  come  to  him.  The 
others  had  either  not  believed  or  not  wished 


266  The  Saint 

to  believe.  She  had  come  running,  and  mad 
with  grief.  Now  she  had  stopped  suddenly,  and 
stood  speechless,  not  two  steps  from  him.  He, 
not  suspecting  she  had  come  on  his  account, 
wished  her  good-night  and  passed  on.  She  did 
not  return  his  salutation,  for,  after  the  first 
moment  of  joy,  she  was  distressed  to  see  him  walk 
with  such  difficulty,  and  she  did  not  dare  to  follow 
him.  She  saw  him  stop  and  speak  to  a  man 
riding  a  mule,  who  was  coming  up.  She  rushed 
forward  to  hear  what  was  said.  The  man  was 
a  muleteer,  sent  by  the  Selvas  to  look  for  Bene- 
detto. The  Selvas,  with  two  mules  for  the  ladies, 
had  left  Jenne  soon  after  him,  thinking  to  overtake 
him  on  the  hillside.  Reaching  the  Anio  without 
having  seen  him,  they  questioned  a  passer-by 
coming  from  Subiaco.  He  could  give  them  no 
news  of  Benedetto.  Noemi,  who  was  to  take 
the  last  train  for  Tivoli,  went  on  with  Giovanni, 
hiding  her  disappointment.  The  muleteer  had 
been  sent  back  to  Jenne  to  look  for  Benedetto, 
and  to  fetch  a  parasol  which  had  been  forgotten 
at  the  inn.  Maria  was  awaiting  his  return 
among  the  rocks  of  the  Infernillo.  The  young 
school-mistress  heard  Benedetto  ask  the  mu- 
leteer to  bring  him  a  little  water  from  Jenne,  for 
the  sake  of  charity.  The  two  men  were  still 
talking,  but  she  sped  away,  without  waiting  to 
hear  more. 

After  a  brief  consultation  with  the  muleteer, 
Benedetto  had  consented  to  ride  down  to  where 


The  Saint  267 

Signer  a  Selva  was  waiting.  Left  alone,  he  seated 
himself  near  the  cross,  and  waited  for  the  man  to 
return  with  the  water  and  the  parasol.  The 
crescent  moon  was  rising,  gilding  the  bright  sky, 
above  the  hills  of  Arcinazzo;  the  evening  was 
warm  and  breathless.  Benedetto  felt  his  temples 
throb  and  burn ;  his  breath  came  quick  and  short, 
but  he  suffered  no  pain.  The  sweet-scented 
grass  of  the  field,  the  scattered  trees,  the  great 
shadowy  hills,  all,  to  him,  was  alive,  was  filled 
with  religion;  all  was  sweet  with  a  mystery  of 
adoring  love  which  bent  even  the  crescent  moon 
towards  the  heights  in  the  opalescent  sky.  Don 
Giuseppe  Plores  whispered  in  his  heart  that  it 
would  be  sweet  to  die  thus  with  the  day,  praying 
in  unison  with  the  innocent  things. 

Hurried  steps  were  heard  in  the  direction  of 
Jenne.  They  stopped  a  short  distance  from  him. 
A  little  girl  came  towards  Benedetto,  timidly 
offered  him  a  bottle  of  water  and  a  glass,  and 
then  turned  and  fled.  Benedetto,  astonished, 
called  her  to  him.  She  came  slowly,  shyly,  and 
did  not  answer  when  he  asked  her  name,  her 
parents'  name.  A  voice  said: 

"She  is  the  innkeeper's  child." 

Benedetto  recognised  the  voice  and  the  person 
also,  though  the  moonlight  was  pale;  she  had 
remained  at  a  distance,  prompted  by  the  same 
sense  of  delicacy  which  had  moved  her  to  bring 
the  child  with  her. 

"  I  thank  you, "  said  he. 


268  The  Saint 

She  came  a  little  nearer,  holding  the  child  by 
the  hand,  and  asked  softly: 

"Do  you  know  the  priests  have  been  talking 
to  the  dead  man's  mother?  Do  you  know  the 
woman  now  accuses  you  of  killing  her  son?" 

Benedetto  replied  with  some  severity  in  his 
tone: 

"Why  do  you  tell  me  this?" 

She  saw  she  had  displeased  him  by  repeating 
this  accusation,  and  exclaimed  in  distress: 

"Oh!  forgive  me!" 

Presently  she  added : 

"  May  I  ask  you  a  question? " 

"Speak." 

"  Shall  you  never  return  to  Jenne? " 

"Never." 

The  woman  was  silent.  They  could  hear  steps 
approaching  in  the  distance;  it  was  the  muleteer 
and  his  mule.  She  said  in  a  lower  tone: 

"For  pity's  sake,  one  word  more!  How  do 
you  picture  to  yourself  the  future  life?  Do  you 
believe  we  shall  meet  those  we  have  known  in 
this  life?" 

If  the  moonlight  had  not  been  so  pale,  Benedetto 
would  have  seen  two  great  tears  rolling  down 
the  young  girl's  face. 

"I  believe,"  he  replied,  "that  until  the  death 
of  our  planet,  our  future  life  will  be  one  of  labour 
upon  it,  and  that  all  those  minds  which  aspire 
to  truth,  to  unity,  will  meet  there,  and  labour 
together." 


The  Saint  269 

The  muleteer's  hobnailed  shoes,  which  grated 
among  the  pebbles,  could  be  heard  very  near 
them.  The  woman  said: 

"Addio!     Farewell!" 

The  tears  sounded  in  her  voice  now.  Benedetto 
answered : 

"  A  Dioi     God  be  with  you ! ' ' 

Mounted  on  the  mule,  he  goes  down  into  the 
shadows  of  the  valley.  He  is  burning  with  fever. 
He  is  going  to  Casa  Selva,  after  all.  He  knows, 
for  the  muleteer  has  told  him,  that  he  will  not  see 
Noemi  there;  but  that  is  indifferent  to  him,  he 
does  not  fear  her,  does  not  even  remember  the 
moment  of  gentle  emotion.  Another  feverish 
thought  is  stirring  in  his  soul.  There  is  a  whirl  of 
words  spoken  by  Don  Clemente,  by  the  lad 
Alberti,  by  the  elderly  Englishwoman,  while 
fragments  of  the  Vision  flash  like  pictures  before 
his  mind's  eye.  Yes,  he  will  go  to  Casa  Selva, 
but  only  for  a  short  time.  As  he  ascends,  the 
mighty  voice  of  the  Anio  roars  louder,  ever  louder, 
out  of  the  depths : 

"Rome!    Rome!    Romel" 


CHAPTER  VI 
THREE  LETTERS 

JEANNE  TO  NOEMI 

VENA  DI  FONTE  ALTA,  July  4, 


FORGIVE  me  if  I  write  to  you  in  pencil.  I 
have  just  reread  your  letter  here,  at  a 
point  half  an  hour  distant  from  the  hotel,  seated 
on  the  edge  of  a  stone  basin  where  the  flocks  come 
to  drink.  The  tiny  stream  of  water  which  trickles 
into  the  basin  from  a  small  wooden  pipe  reminds 
me,  with  its  gentle  voice,  of  something  which 
makes  my  heart  ache;  a  walk  with  him  across 
fields  and  through  woods  in  the  mist;  a  halt  by 
this  very  spring,  painful  words,  a  few  tears, 
something  written  in  the  water,  a  moment  of 
happiness — the  last.  I  made  a  great  sacrifice 
for  Carlino's  sake  when  I  returned  to  Vena  after 
an  absence  of  three  years.  I  have  always  loved 
him,  but  the  message  from  Jenne  would  make 
me  face  far  greater  sacrifices  than  this  for  him, 
make  me  face  them  willingly,  though  conscious 
of  having  lost  all  merit  in  them. 

I  am  not  satisfied  with  your  letters;  I  will  tell 
370 


Three  Letters  271 

you  why  sometime,  but  not  now.  It  is  too  difficult 
to  write  here.  The  mist  is  rolling  down  from  the 
uplands  high  above  the  spring,  and  a  cold  west 
wind  is  blowing.  I  must  be  careful  of  my  health 
on  Carlino's  account,  and  this  is  another  sacrifice, 
for  I  hate  my  health ! 

Later. 

Noemi,  could  you  not  contrive  to  let  the  enclosed 
half-sheet  of  paper,  upon  which  I  have  written  in 
pencil,  fall  into  his  hands?  You  hesitate  to  tell 
him  how  obedient  I  am;  could  you  not,  at  least, 
help  me  to  let  him  know  it  in  this  way  ? 

I  am  not  satisfied  with  your  letters,  first  of  all 
because  they  are  too  short.  You  know  how  eager 
I  am  to  hear  all  about  him.  He  is  a  guest  in  the 
same  house  with  you ;  at  Subiaco  he  can  surely 
not  know  how  to  employ  his  time,  and  you  sum 
up  everything  in  two  or  three  words ! — He  is  better. 
He  reads  a  great  deal.  He  has  been  working  in 
the  kitchen-garden.  Perhaps  he  will  spend  the 
summer  with  us.  He  writes. — And  you  have 
never  yet  told  me  what  malady  he  is  really 
suffering  from,  what  he  reads,  where  he  will  go  if 
he  does  not  spend  the  summer  with  you,  whether 
he  writes  letters  or  books,  and  what  you  talk 
about  together,  for  it  is  not  possible  that  you 
never  talk  together.  Do  not  repeat  your  excuse 
that  the  less  you  speak  of  him,  the  better  it  is  for 
me.  That  is  a  convenient  excuse  you  have 
invented,  but  it  is  foolish,  because,  whether  you 
talk  to  me  of  him  or  not,  it  is  all  the  same.  My 


272  The  Saint 

hopes  are  quite  dead ;  they  will  not  revive.  Then 
write  me  long  letters.  I  am  sure  he  wishes  to 
convert  you,  that  you  have  very  serious  talks 
together,  and  that  is  why  you  tell  me  so  little 
about  him.  It  would  not  be  a  very  glorious 
achievement  to  convert  you,  for  you  are  senti- 
mental in  matters  of  religion ;  you  do  not  possess 
that  clear,  cold,  and  positive  insight  which  is, 
unfortunately,  natural  to  me,  and  which  I  wish  I 
did  not  possess. 

When  do  you  intend  to  return  to  Belgium? 
Do  not  your  affairs  there  need  your  attention? 
You  once  mentioned  an  agent  in  whom  you  had 
little  confidence.  We  shall  probably  travel  in 
August.  At  least,  that  is  what  Carlino  says  at 
present,  but  he  changes  his  mind  very  easily. 
I  should  like  to  visit  Holland  with  you,  in  Septem- 
ber. Good-bye!  Please  write.  If  he  reads  much 
you  might  get  him  to  lend  you  a  book,  and  leave 
the  half-sheet  of  paper  in  it  as  a  book-mark. 
At  any  rate,  find  some  way.  That  or  something 
else;  you  are  a  woman!  Contrive  some  means, 
if  you  love  me!  But  I  really  believe  you  no 
longer  love  me  at  all!  You  would  confess  it  if 
you  told  the  truth  However,  there  is  a  lady  at 
this  hotel  who  is  in  love  with  me!  Laugh,  if 
you  like,  but  it  is  true.  She  lives  in  Rome. 
Her  husband  is  Under-Secretary  of  State.  She 
is  determined  that  I  shall  spend  next  winter  in 
Rome.  It  will  depend  upon  Carlino.  This  lady 
lays  siege  to  him;  he  lets  himself  be  besieged,  and 


Three  Letters  273 

neither  resists  nor  capitulates.     Good-bye.   Write, 
write,  and  again  write! 

NOEMI  TO  JEANNE  (from  the  French) 

1  did  still  better !  In  my  presence,  my  brother- 
in-law  cited  from  memory  a  Latin  passage  which 
impressed  him,  concerning  certain  monks  of  an- 
cient times,  before  Christ.  He  begged  Giovanni 
to  write  it  down  for  him.  We  were  in  the  olive- 
grove  above  the  villetta,  seated  on  the  grass. 
I  immediately  passed  a  pencil  to  Giovanni,  and 
the  half-sheet  of  paper,  with  the  blank  side  upper- 
most. He  wrote,  and  Maironi  took  the  paper, 
read  the  Latin  passage,  and  put  the  sheet  into  his 
pocket,  without  looking  at  the  other  side.  It 
was  an  act  of  treason,  and  I  have  been  guilty  of 
treason  for  love  of  you.  Will  you  ever  doubt 
ne  again? 

What  can  I  tell  you  about  his  illness  which  I 
have  not  told  you  already?  He  was  troubled 
with  fever  for  about  two  weeks.  One  day  the 
physician  would  pronounce  it  typhoid,  and  the 
next  he  would  say  it  was  not.  At  last  the  fever 
left  him,  but  his  strength  has  not  returned  com- 
pletely; he  is  very  thin;  he  seems  to  have  some 
persistent,  internal  ailment;  the  doctor  is  very 
particular  about  the  quality  of  his  food;  he  has 
changed  his  way  of  living,  eats  meat  and  drinks 
a  little  wine.  Yesterday  a  friend  of  Giovanni's 
came  from  Rome  to  see  him ;  the  famous  Professor 

18 


274  The  Saint 

Mayda.  Giovanni  begged  him  to  examine  Maironi , 
and  to  advise  him.  He  recommended  some 
waters,  which  Maironi  will  certainly  not  take. 
I  feel  I  know  him  well  enough  to  be  sure  of  that. 
However,  during  the  last  week  he  has  improved 
rapidly.  In  the  morning  and  evening  he  works 
a  little  in  the  kitchen-garden.  This  morning  he 
rose  very  early,  and  what  should  he  do  but  take 
it  into  his  head  to  wash  down  the  stairs !  Yester- 
day Maria  scolded  the  old  servant  because  the 
stairs  were  not  clean.  When  the  old  woman,  who 
sleeps  at  Subiaco,  arrived  at  seven  o'clock,  she 
found  Maironi  had  done  the  work  for  her.  My 
sister  and  my  brother-in  law  reproached  him; 
Giovanni  was  almost  severe,  perhaps  because  he 
is  so  different  from  Maironi,  and  would  never 
think  of  touching  a  broom,  even  if  he  lived  in  a 
cloud  of  cobwebs!  What  does  Maironi  read? 
He  has  never  but  once  spoken  to  me  of  what  he 
reads,  and  then  only  for  a  moment,  as  I  shall  tell 
you  later.  I  wrote  you  that  perhaps  he  would 
spend  the  summer  with  us,  for  I  know  Maria 
and  Giovanni  wish  it.  I  now  have  a  presentiment 
that  he  will  not  stay,  but  will  go  to  Rome.  This, 
however,  is  only  my  impression ;  I  have  no  positive 
knowledge. 

As  to  his  wishing  to  convert  me,  I  do  not  know 
whether  it  would  be  an  easy  task  or  not,  or 
whether  Maironi  thinks  anything  about  it.  You 
will  notice  that  I  call  him  Maironi  in  writing  to 
you ;  in  speaking  to  him  I  call  him  simply  Bene- 


Three  Letters  275 

•letto,  for  that  is  his  wish.  I  am  sure  Giovanni 
once  thought  of  converting  me.  He  found  it  so 
easy  that  he  never  speaks  of  it  to  me  now.  I 
should  not  think  the  same  of  Maironi.  I  believe 
that  to  him  Christianity  means,  above  all  things, 
actions  and  life  according  to  the  spirit  of  Christ, 
of  the  risen  Christ,  who  lives  for  ever  among  us, 
of  whom  we  have,  as  he  puts  it,  the  experience. 
It  seems  to  me  that  the  object  of  his  religious 
mission  is,  not  the  placing  of  the  creed  of  one 
Christian  Church  before  another,  although  there 
is  no  doubt  the  holiness  of  the  life  he  leads  is 
strictly  Catholic.  Whenever  I  have  heard  him 
speak  of  dogmas,  with  Giovanni,  it  has  never  been 
to  discuss  the  difference  between  Church  and 
Church,  but  rather  to  expound  certain  formulas 
of  faith,  and  to  show  what  a  strong  light  emanates 
from  them  when  they  are  expounded  in  a  certain 
way.  Giovanni  himself  is  past-master  at  this, 
but  when  Giovanni  speaks  you  are  impressed 
above  all,  by  the  immense  store  of  knowledge 
his  mind  contains;  when  Maironi  speaks  you  feel 
that  the  living  Christ  is  in  his  heart,  the  risen 
Christ,  and  he  fires  you !  In  order  to  be  perfectly, 
scrupulously  sincere,  I  will  tell  you  that  although 
I  do  not  think  he  intends  to  convert  me,  still  I 
am  not  very  sure  of  this.  One  day  we  were  in 
the  olive-grove.  He  and  Giovanni  were  discussing 
a  German  book  on  the  essence  of  Christianity, 
which,  it  seems,  has  made  a  stir,  and  was  WTitten 
by  a  Protestant  theologian.  Maironi  observed 


276  The  Saint 

that,  when  this  Protestant  speaks  of  Catholicism, 
he  does  so  with  a  most  honest  intention  of  being 
impartial,  but  that,  in  reality,  he  does  not 
know  the  Catholic  religion.  His  opinion  is  that 
no  Protestant  does  really  know  it;  they  are  all 
of  them  full  of  prejudices,  and  believe  certain 
external  and  remediable  abuses  in  its  practices  to 
be  essential  to  Catholicism.  There  was  a  basket 
of  apricots  standing  near,  and  he  chose  one  which 
had  been  very  fine,  but  which  was  beginning  to 
rot.  "Here,"  said  he,  "is  an  apricot,  which  is 
slightly  rotten.  If  I  offer  this  apricot  to  one  who 
does  not  know,  but  who  wishes  to  be  amiable,  he 
will  tell  me  that  part  of  it  is  indeed  firm  and  good, 
but  that,  unfortunately,  part  of  it  is  diseased, 
and  therefore,  though  he  much  regrets  it,  he 
cannot  accept  it.  Thus  this  illustrious  Protestant 
speaks  of  Catholicism.  But  if  I  offer  my  apricot 
to  one  who  knows,  he  will  accept  it  even  if  it  be 
entirely  rotten;  and  he  will  plant  the  immortal 
seed  in  his  own  garden,  in  the  hope  of  raising  fine, 
healthy  fruit."  These  remarks  he  addressed  to 
Giovanni,  but  his  eyes  sought  mine  continually. 
I  must  add  that  at  Jenne  also,  he  told  me  to  learn 
to  understand  Catholicism.  At  any  rate,  if  I 
remain  a  Protestant,  it  will  not  be  because  I  do 
or  do  not  understand,  but  rather  in  obedience 
to  my  most  sacred  feelings. 

My  dear  Jeanne,  there  is  something  else  I  must 
tell  you  plainly.  I  have  a  suspicion  that  you  are 
jealous.  I  believe  you  do  not  realise  the  inex- 


Three  Letters  277 

pressible  grief  you  would  cause  me,  if  this  were 
really  the  case.  I  fear  you  do  not  realise  the 
immense  gravity  of  the  offence  it  would  be,  first 
to  him  and  then  to  me.  Now  I  am  going  to  open 
my  heart  to  you.  I  should  reproach  r.iyself  if  I 
did  not  do  so,  dear  friend,  reproach  myself  on 
your  account,  on  his,  and  on  my  own.  As  to 
him,  he  is  kind  and  gentle  to  all  with  whom  he 
comes  in  contact,  especially  to  the  humble,  and 
you  might  even  be  jealous  of  the  old  woman  who 
comes  from  Subiaco  to  do  the  rough  work  in  the 
house.  With  Maria  and  myself  he  shows  his 
kindness  and  gentleness  silently  rather  than  in 
words.  With  us  he  is  quiet,  simple,  and  affable; 
he  does  not  appear  to  wish  to  avoid  us,  but  it  has 
never  happened  that  he  has  remained  alone  with 
either  of  us.  In  his  eyes  I  am  a  soul,  and  souls 
are  to  him  exactly  what  the  tiniest  plants  in  my 
father's  great  garden  were  to  him ;  he  would  have 
liked  to  protect  them  from  frost  with  the  warmth 
of  his  own  heart,  and  make  them  grow  and  flower 
by  communicating  his  own  vitality  to  them. 
But  I  am  a  soul  like  any  other  soul,  the  only 
difference  perhaps  being,  that  he  deems  me  further 
removed  from  the  truth,  and  consequently  more 
exposed  to  frost.  But  this  is  not  apparent  in 
his  bearing. 

As  to  myself,  dearest,  I  certainly  have  a  deep 
feeling  for  him,  but  it  would  be  abominable  to 
say  that  this  feeling  in  the  least  resembles  what 
men  call  by  the  familiar  name.  This  sentiment 


278  The  Saint 

is  one  of  reverence,  of  a  kind  of  devout  fear,  ol 
awe ;  I  feel  his  person  is  surrounded  by  something 
like  a  magic  circle,  into  which  I  should  never  dare 
to  penetrate.  My  heart  beats  no  faster  in  his 
presence.  I  think,  indeed,  it  beats  more  slowly 
but  of  this  I  am  not  sure.  Dear  Jeanne,  I  could 
not  possibly  speak  more  honestly  than  I  have 
done,  therefore  I  beg  you,  I  entreat  you,  not  to 
imagine  anything  different! 

For  the  present  I  am  not  thinking  of  going  to 
Belgium.  I  may  possibly  go  there  for  a  short 
time,  later  on.  My  kind  regards  to  your  brother. 
I  should  like  to  know  if  he  has  sent  the  old  priest 
and  the  young  woman  to  Fomalhaut  at  last! 
I  myself  sometimes  think  of  his  Fomalhaut! 
Tell  him  that  if  you  and  he  come  to  Rome  this 
winter,  we  will  make  music  together.  Good-bye 
I  embrace  you! 

BENEDETTO  TO  DON  CLEMENTS 

(Never  sent) 

Padre  mio,  the  Lord  has  departed  from  my 
soul,  not,  indeed,  giving  me  up  to  sin,  but  He  has 
taken  from  me  all  sense  of  His  presence,  and  the 
despairing  cry  of  Jesus  Christ  on  the  cross  thrills, 
at  times,  through  my  whole  being.  If  I  strive  to 
concentrate  all  my  thoughts  in  the  one  thought 
of  the  Divine  Presence,  all  my  senses  in  an  act 
of  submission  to  the  Divine  Will,  I  derive  only 


Three  Letters  279 

pain  and  discouragement  from  it.  I  feel  like  the 
beast  of  burden  which  falls  under  its  load,  and 
which,  at  the  first  cut  of  the  whip,  makes  an 
effort  to  rise,  and  falls  again;  at  a  second  blow,  at 
a  third,  or  a  fourth,  it  only  shivers,  and  does  not 
attempt  to  rise.  If  I  open  the  Gospels  or  the 
Imitation,  I  find  no  flavour  in  them.  If  I  recite 
prayers,  weariness  overpowers  me,  and  I  am 
silent.  If  I  prostrate  myself  upon  the  ground, 
the  ground  freezes  me.  If  I  make  complaint  to 
God  at  being  treated  thus,  His  silence  seems  to 
grow  more  hostile.  If,  on  the  authority  of  the 
great  mystics,  I  say  to  myself  that  I  am  wrong 
to  feel  oich  affection  for  spiritual  joys,  to  suffer 
thus  when  deprived  of  them,  I  answer  myself 
that  the  mystics  err,  that  in  the  state  of  conscious 
grace  one  walks  safely,  but  that  in  this  starless 
night  of  spiritual  darkness  one  cannot  see  the 
way;  there  is  no  other  rule  than  to  withdraw  one's 
foot  when  it  touches  the  soft  grass,  and  that  is  not 
sufficient,  for  there  is  also  the  danger  of  setting 
the  foot  in  empty  space.  Father,  Padre  mio, 
open  your  arms  to  me,  that  I  may  feel  the  warmth 
of  your  breast,  filled  with  God!  There  are  a 
hundred  reasons  why  I  should  not  go  to  Santa 
Scolastica,  and  in  any  case  I  should  prefer  to 
write.  You  are  here  present  with  me  more  than 
in  the  body ;  I  can  become  one  with  you,  can  mingle 
with  you  more  easily  than  if  you  stood  before  me ; 
and  I  need  to  mingle  with  you  in  thought,  I  need 
to  force  my  soul  into  yours.  Perhaps  I  shall 


280  The  Saint 

send  you  this  letter,  but  perhaps  I  shall  not  send 
it.  Father,  father!  it  does  me  more  good  to  write 
to  you  than  to  speak  to  you!  I  could  not  speak 
with  the  fire  which  now  rushes  to  my  pen,  and 
which  would  not  rush  to  my  lips.  Writing,  I 
speak,  I  cry  out  to  the  immortal  in  you,  I  divest 
you  of  all  that  is  mortal  even  in  your  soul,  and 
which  in  your  presence  would  extinguish  my  fire. 
I  divest  you  of  the  mortality  of  an  incomplete 
knowledge  of  things,  of  prudence,  which  would 
prompt  you  to  veil  your  thoughts.  No,  I  will 
not  send  this  letter,  but  nevertheless  it  will  reach 
you.  I  will  burn  it,  but  still  it  will  reach  you; 
for  it  is  not  possible  that  my  silent  cry  should  not 
come  to  you,  perhaps  now,  in  the  darkness  of  the 
night,  while  you  sleep,  perhaps  in  two  hours' 
time,  still  in  the  darkness  of  the  night,  while  you 
pray  with  the  brothers,  in  the  dear  church,  where 
we  worshipped  so  often  together. 

I  know  why  I  am  wretched,  I  know  why  God 
has  forsaken  me.  Always  when  God  forsakes  me, 
when  all  the  living  springs  of  my  soul  are  dry, 
and  the  living  germs  are  parched,  and  my  heart 
becomes  as  a  dead  sea,  I  know  the  reason  why. 
It  is  because  I  have  heard  sweet  music  behind  me, 
and  have  looked  back;  or  because  the  wind  has 
brought  me  the  scent  of  blossoming  fields  beside 
my  path,  and  I  have  paused ;  or  because  the  mist 
has  risen  before  me,  and  I  have  been  afraid;  or 
because  a  thorn  has  pierced  my  foot,  and  I  have 
felt  vexation.  Moments,  flashes,  but  in  that  moment 


Three  Letters  281 

the  door  opens,  an  evil  breath  enters !  It  is  always 
thus :  an  earnest  glance,  a  word  of  praise  enjoyed, 
an  image  lingered  over,  an  offence  recalled,  any 
one  of  these  suffices;  the  evil  breath  has  time  to 
enter. 

And  now  all  of  these  causes  are  joined  together! 
Darkness  descended  upon  my  path ;  I  set  my  foot 
in  the  soft  grass,  I  felt  it;  I  withdrew  my  foot, 
but  not  at  once.  Why  do  I  speak  in  figures? 
Write,  write  the  naked  truth,  cowardly  hand! 
Write  that  this  house  is  a  nest  of  ease,  and  that, 
if  I  have  enjoyed  the  soft  bed,  the  fine  linen,  the 
odour  of  lavender,  I  have  delighted  still  more  in 
the  conversation  of  Giovanni  Selva,  in  the  read- 
ings, which  have  filled  me  with  the  joys  of  the 
intellect,  in  the  presence  of  two  young  and  pure 
women,  cultured  and  full  of  grace,  in  their  secret 
admiration,  in  the  perfume  of  a  sentiment  which 
I  believe  one  of  them  harbours,  in  the  vision  of  a 
life  of  retirement  in  this  nest,  with  these  beings, 
far  from  all  that  is  vulgar,  all  that  is  low,  unclean, 
and  loathsome. 

I  have  felt  the  sin  of  the  world  with  the  repulsion 
which  shrinks  from  it,  and  not  with  the  fiery 
sorrow  which  braves  it  and  wrests  souls  from  its 
clutches.  Moments,  flashes;  I  took  refuge,  as  in 
times  past,  in  the  embrace  of  the  cross ;  but,  little 
by  little,  the  cross  turned  to  unfeeling,  dead 
wood  in  my  arms,  and  this  was  not  as  in  times 
past!  I  told  myself,  "  Spirits  of  evil,  strong  and 
cunning  powers  of  the  air,  are  conspiring  against 


282  The  Saint 

me,  against  my  mission."  I  answered  myself, 
"Pride,  be  gone!"  And  then  the  first  idea  took 
possession  of  me  once  more.  In  this  sad  manner 
I  rocked  to  and  fro,  every  day,  and  all  day  long. 
And  because  I  did  not  allow  any  part  of  all  this 
to  transpire,  because  I  understood  that  Signer 
Giovanni  and  the  ladies  did  not  doubt  I  was 
inwardly  as  calm,  as  pure  as  I  was  externally; 
I  despised  myself  at  certain  moments  for  a 
hypocrite,  only  to  tell  myself  the  next  moment 
that,  on  the  contrary,  my  pure  and  calm  exterior 
helped  me  to  live — I  allude  to  the*  spiritual  life — 
that  by  appearing  strong,  I  was  forced  to  be 
strong.  I  compared  myself  to  a  tree  whose 
marrow  has  been  destroyed  by  worms,  whose 
wood  is  rotten,  but  which  still  lives  through  its 
bark,  by  means  of  which  it  produces  leaves  and 
flowers,  and  can  spread  welcome  shade.  Then 
I  told  myself  that  this  was  good  reasoning  before 
men;  but  was  it  good  reasoning  before  God, 
before  God?  And  again  I  told  myself  that  God 
could  heal  me,  for  though  the  tree  may  not  be 
healed,  yet  a  man  may  be  made  whole.  Again 
my  mind  was  tormented,  because  I  was  incapable 
of  doing  what  God  would  demand  of  me,  in  order 
that  my  will  might  once  more  work  in  unison  with 
His.  He  would  order  me  to  flee,  to  flee!  God  is 
in  the  voice  of  the  Anio,  which,  since  the  evening 
of  my  departure  from  Jenne,  has  been  saying: 
"Rome,  Rome,  Rome  !"  And  God  is  also  in  the 
strength  of  the  invisible  worms,  which  have 


Three  Letters  283 

gnawed  the  vital  virtues  of  my  body.  Am  I 
then  to  blame?  Am  I  then  to  blame?  Lord, 
hear  my  groan,  which  asks  for  justice! 

I  have  said  many  times  that  I  will  leave  as  soon 
as  I  am  strong  enough,  but  they  wish  to  keep  me 
here,  and  how  can  I  say  to  them  "  My  friends, 
you  are  my  enemies?"  Behold  my  cowardice! 
Why  can  I  not  say  so?  Why  should  I  not  say  so? 

One  day  I  read  in  the  young  Protestant  girl's 
glance  the  question:  "If  you  go,  what  will  become 
of  my  soul?  Should  you  not  desire  to  lead  me  to 
your  faith?  I  will  not  yet  allow  myself  to  be 
led."  No,  I  cannot,  I  must  not  write  all.  How 
can  I  write  the  meaning  of  a  glance,  the  accent 
of  a  word,  commonplace  in  itself?  They  are  not 
such  glances  as  drove  St.  Jerome  to  plunge  into 
icy  water,  or  at  least  my  emotion  does  not  resemble 
his.  Icy  water  is  of  no  avail  against  a  glance 
which  is  all  sweet  purity.  Only  fire  can  prevail 
against  it,  the  fire  of  the  Supreme  Love!  Ah! 
who  will  free  me  from  my  mortal  heart,  whose 
faintest  throb  thrills  all  the  fibres  of  my  body? 
Who  will  set  free  the  immortal  heart  which  is 
within  it,  like  the  germ  of  a  fruit,  preparing  for 
itself  a  celestial  body?  I  cannot,  I  must  not  write 
all,  but  this,  indeed,  I  will  write:  The  Lord  seeks 
to  ensnare  me,  to  entrap  me!  When  I  shall  have 
fallen,  He  will  deride  me!  Why  did  it  happen 
that  I  wrote  the  Latin  quotation  about  those  who 
live  and  do  penance  between  the  Dead  Sea  and 
the  desert,  "Sine  pecunia,  sine  ulla  femina,  omni 


284  The  Saint 

venere  abdicata  socia  palmarum,"  on  that  piece 
of  paper,  which  on  the  other  side  bore  words 
from  J.  D.,  words  still  hot  concerning  my  past 
sin  and  hers,  words  reminding  me  of  the  most 
terrible  moments?  How  did  a  person  so  timid 
dare  to  force  a  secret  communication  upon  me? 
The  wind  has  blown  my  window  open.  Oh! 
Anio,  Anio !  will  you  never  tire  of  your  command- 
ing? I  must  start  now,  at  once?  Impossible, 
the  doors  are  locked.  Moreover,  it  would  be 
shame  to  leave  thus.  I  should  be  dishonouring 
God;  they  would  say  "what  ungrateful,  what  mad 
servants  has  the  Lord!"  Come,  spirit  of  my 
master,  come,  come!  Speak  to  me;  I  will  listen. 
What  have  you  to  say  to  me?  What  have  you  to 
say  to  me?  Ah!  you  smile  at  my  tempest;  you 
tell  me  to  leave,  yes,  but  to  leave  honourably, 
to  announce  that  the  Lord  Himself  commands 
my  departure.  You  tell  me  to  obey  the  voice 
of  God  in  the  Anio.  Now  the  wind  is  ceasing; 
as  if  satisfied,  it  seems  to  be  growing  quiet.  Yes, 
yes,  yes,  with  tears!  To-morrow,  to-morrow 
morning!  I  will  announce  it.  And  I  know  to 
whom  I  shall  go  in  Rome.  Oh!  light,  oh!  peace, 
oh!  springs  burst  forth  again  in  my  soul;  oh! 
dead  sea,  swelling  with  a  wave  of  warmth!  Yes, 
yes,  yes,  with  tears!  I  return  thanks!  I  return 
thanks!  Glory  be  to  Thee,  our  Father  which 
art  in  Heaven,  hallowed  be  Thy  name,  Thy 
kingdom  come;  Thy  will  be  done! 


CHAPTER  VII 
IN  THE  WHIRLPOOL  OF  THE  WORLD 

IT  was  already  growing  dark  when  a  private 
carriage  stopped  at  the  door  of  a  house  in 
Via  della  Vite  in  Rome.  Two  ladies  alighted, 
and  quickly  disappeared  within  the  gloomy 
entrance,  while  the  carriage  drove  away.  Pres- 
ently another  carriage  arrived,  deposited  two 
more  ladies  before  the  same  gloomy  door,  and 
in  its  turn  rolled  away.  Thus,  within  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  five  carriages  drove  up,  and  no  less 
than  twelve  female  figures  were  engulfed  by  the 
dark  portal.  The  narrow  street  then  relapsed  in- 
to its  usual  quiet.  In  about  half  an  hour  groups 
of  men  began  to  appear,  coming  from  the  Corso. 
They  paused  before  the  same  door,  read  the 
number  by  the  light  of  a  neighbouring  street-lamp, 
and  then  entered.  In  this  manner  about  forty 
persons  more  were  engulfed  by  the  gloomy  portal 
The  last  arrivals  were  two  priests.  The  one  who 
tried  to  read  the  number  was  near-sighted,  and 
could  not  make  it  out.  His  companion  said  to 
him,  laughing: 

"Go  in,  go  in!    There  is  an  odour  of  Luther 
in  the  air;  it  must  be  herel" 

285 


286  The  Saint 

The  first  priest  entered  the  evil-smelling  dark- 
ness. By  a  black  and  dirty  stair  they  mounted  up, 
up,  towards  a  small  oil  lamp,  burning  on  the  fourth 
floor.  On  reaching  the  third  floor  they  struck  a 
match  to  read  the  names  upon  the  door-plates. 
A  voice  called  out  from  above : 

"  Here,  gentlemen,  here!" 

An  affable  young  man  in  a  dark  morning  suit 
came  down  to  meet  them.  He  showed  them 
great  deference,  said  the  others  were  waiting  for 
them,  and  conducted  them  through  an  ante-room 
and  a  passage  almost  as  dark  as  the  stairway 
itself,  to  a  large  room,  full  of  people,  and  dimly 
lighted  by  four  candles  and  two  old  oil  lamps. 
The  young  man  apologised  for  the  darkness, 
saying  his  parents  would  tolerate  neither  the 
electric  light,  nor  gas,  nor  petroleum.  All  the 
men  who  had  arrived  in  groups  were  assembled 
here.  Three  or  four  wore  clerical  dress.  The 
others,  with  the  exception  of  an  old  man  with  a 
red  face  and  a  white  beard,  seemed  to  be  students. 
There  were  no  women  present.  All  were  standing 
save  the  old  man,  who  was  evidently  an  important 
personage.  Conversation  was  being  carried  on  in 
low  tones.  The  room  was  full  of  whisperings, 
like  the  murmur  of  tiny  rivulets  and  falling  drops 
in  a  cave.  When  the  two  priests  had  entered 
the  young  host  said: 

"We  are  ready!" 

Those  forming,  the  central  group  fell  back  in  a 
circle,  and  Benedetto  appeared  in  their  midst. 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    287 

A  small  table  with  two  candles  upon  it,  and  a 
chair,  had  been  prepared  for  his  use.  He  begged 
that  the  candles  might  be  removed.  Then  he 
was  dissatisfied  with  the  table.  Saying  he  was 
weary,  he  asked  to  be  allowed  to  speak  seated 
on  the  sofa,  beside  the  old  man  with  the  flushed 
face  and  the  white  beard.  Benedetto  was  dressed 
in  black,  and  was  paler  and  thinner  than  at  Jenne. 
His  hair  had  receded  from  his  forehead,  which 
had  acquired  something  of  the  solemn  aspect  of 
the  brow  of  Don  Giuseppe  Flores.  His  eyes  had 
become  a  still  brighter  blue.  Many  of  the  faces 
turned  eagerly  towards  him  seemed  more  fascin- 
ated by  those  eyes  and  that  brow  than  anxious 
to  hear  his  words.  Making  no  gestures,  his  hands 
resting  on  his  knees,  be  began  speaking  as  follows: 

"  I  must  first  state  to  whom  I  speak,  for  not  all 
here  present  are  of  one  mind  concerning  Christ 
and  the  Church.  I  do  not  address  my  remarks 
to  the  ecclesiastics ;  I  believe  and  hope  they  are  not 
in  need  of  my  words.  Neither  do  I  speak  to  this 
gentleman  seated  beside  me,  for  I  know  he  does 
not  need  my  words.  I  speak  to  no  one  who  is 
firmly  grounded  in  the  Catholic  faith.  I  address 
myself  solely  to  those  young  men  who  wrote  to 
me  in  the  following  terms." 

He  took  out  a  letter  and  read: 

1 '  We  were  educated  in  the  Catholic  faith,  and 

on  attaining  manhood  we — by  an  act  of  our  own 

free  will — accepted  its  most  arduous  mysteries; 

we   have   laboured   in    the   faith,  both   in    the 


288  The  Saint 

administrative  and  social  field;  but  now  another 
mystery  rises  in  our  way,  and  our  faith  falters  be- 
fore it.  The  Catholic  Church,  calling  herself  the 
fountain  of  truth,  to-day  opposes  the  research  of 
truth,  when  her  foundations,  the  sacred  books,  the 
formulae  of  her  dogmas,  her  alleged  infallibility, 
become  objects  of  research.  To  us  this  signifies 
that  she  no  longer  has  faith  in  herself.  The 
Catholic  Church,  which  proclaims  herself  the 
channel  of  life,  to-day  chains  and  stifles  all 
that  lives  youthfully  within  her,  to-day  seeks 
to  prop  all  that  is  tottering  and  aged  within  her. 
To  us  these  things  mean  death,  distant,  but 
inevitable  death.  The  Catholic  Church,  claim- 
ing to  wish  to  renew  all  things  through  Christ, 
is  hostile  to  us,  who  strive  to  wrest  the  direc- 
tion of  social  progress  from  the  enemies  of  Christ. 
This  fact,  with  many  others,  signifies  to  us, 
that  she  has  Christ  on  her  lips  but  not  in  her 
heart.  Such  is  the  Catholic  Church  to-day.  Can 
God  desire  our  obedience  to  her  to  continue? 
We  come  to  you  with  this  question.  What  shall 
we  do?  You  who  profess  to  be  a  Catholic,  who 
preach  Catholicism,  who  have  the  reputation ' ' 

Here  Benedetto  broke  off,  saying: 

"Only  some  unimportant  words  follow." 

And  he  continued  his  discourse. 

"I  answer  those  who  wrote  to  me,  thus:  Tell 
me,  why  have  you  appealed  to  me  who  profess 
to  be  a  Catholic?  Do  you  perhaps  think  me  a 
superior  of  the  superiors  in  the  Church?  Will 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    289 

you,  perhaps  for  that  reason,  rest  in  peace  upon 
my  word,  if  my  word  be  different  from  what  you 
call  the  word  of  the  Church?  Listen  to  this 
allegory.  Thirsty  pilgrims  draw  near  to  a  famous 
fountain.  They  find  its  basin  full  of  stagnant 
water,  disgusting  to  the  taste.  The  living  spring 
is  at  the  bottom  of  the  basin ;  they  do  not  find  it. 
Sadly  they  turn  for  aid  to  a  quarryman,  working 
in  a  neighbouring  quarry.  The  quarryman 
offers  them  living  water.  They  inquire  the  name 
of  the  spring.  '  It  is  the  same  as  the  water  in  the 
basin,'  he  replies.  'Underground  it  is  all  one 
and  the  same  stream.  He  who  digs  will  find  it.' 
You  are  the  thirsty  pilgrims,  I  am  the  humble 
quarryman,  and  Catholic  truth  is  the  hidden, 
underground  current.  The  basin  is  not  the  Church ; 
the  Church  is  the  whole  field  through  which  the 
living  waters  flow.  You  have  appealed  to  me 
because  you  unconsciously  recognise  that  the 
Church  is  not  the  hierarchy  alone,  but  the  univer- 
sal assemblage  of  all  the  faithful,  gens  sancta; 
that  from  the  bottom  of  any  Christian  heart  the 
living  waters  of  the  spring  itself,  of  truth  itself, 
may  rush  forth.  Unconscious  recognition,  for 
were  it  not  unconscious  you  would  not  say,  the 
Church  opposes  this,  the  Church  stifles  that,  the 
Church  is  growing  old,  the  Church  has  Christ  on 
her  lips  and  not  in  her  heart. 

"  Understand  me  well.  I  do  not  pass  judgment 
upon  the  hierarchy ;  I  respect  the  authority  of  the 
hierarchy;  I  simply  say  that  the  Church  does  not 


290  The  Saint 

consist  of  the  hierarchy  alone.  Listen  to  another 
example.  In  the  thoughts  of  every  man  there  is 
a  species  of  hierarchy.  Take  the  upright  man. 
With  him  certain  ideas,  certain  aims,  are  dominant 
thoughts,  and  control  his  actions.  They  are  these : 
to  fulfil  his  religious,  moral,  and  civil  duties.  To 
these  various  duties  he  gives  the  traditional 
interpretations  which  have  been  taught  him. 
Yet  this  hierarchy  of  firmly  grounded  opinions 
does  not  constitute  the  whole  man.  Below  it 
there  are  in  him  a  multitude  of  other  thoughts, 
a  multitude  of  other  ideas,  which  are  continually 
being  changed  and  modified  by  the  impressions 
and  experiences  of  life.  And  below  these  thoughts 
there  is  another  region  of  the  soul,  there  is  the 
subconsciousness,  where  occult  faculties  work  at 
an  occult  task,  where  the  mysterious  contact  with 
God  comes  to  pass.  '  The  dominant  ideas  exercise 
authority  over  the  will  of  the  upright  man,  but 
all  that  other  world  of  thought  is  of  vast  import- 
ance as  well,  because  it  is  continually  deriving 
truth  from  the  experience  of  what  is  real  externally, 
and  from  the  experience  of  what  is  Divine  inter- 
nally, and  therefore  seems  to  rectify  the  superior 
ideas,  the  dominant  ideas,  in  that  in  which  their 
traditional  element  is  not  in  perfect  harmony  with 
truth.  And  to  them  it  is  a  perennial  fountain  of 
fresh  life  which  renews  them,  a  source  of  legitimate 
authority,  derived  rather  from  the  nature  of 
things,  from  the  true  value  of  ideas,  than  from 
the  decrees  of  men.  The  Church  is  the  whole 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    291 

man,  not  one  separate  group  of  exalted  and 
dominant  ideas;  the  Church  is  the  hierarchy, 
with  its  traditional  views,  and  the  laity,  with  its 
continual  derivations  from  reality,  its  continual 
reaction  upon  tradition;  the  Church  is  official 
theology,  and  she  is  the  inexhaustible  treasure 
of  Divine  Truth,  which  reacts  upon  official 
theology;  the  Church  does  not  die;  the  Church 
does  not  grow  old;  the  Church  has  the  living 
Christ  in  her  heart  rather  than  on  her  lips; 
the  Church  is  a  laboratory  of  truth,  which  is  in 
continual  action,  and  God  commands  you  to 
remain  in  the  Church,  to  become  the  Church 
fountains  of  living  water." 

Like  a  gust  of  wind,  a  feeling  of  emotion  and 
of  admiration  swept  over  the  audience.  Bene- 
detto, whose  voice  had  been  growing  louder  and 
louder,  rose  to  his  feet. 

"But  what  manner  of  faith  is  yours!"  he 
exclaimed  excitedly,  "if  you  talk  of  deserting 
the  Church  because  you  are  displeased  with  cer- 
tain antiquated  doctrines  of  her  rulers,  with  certain 
decrees  of  the  Roman  congregations,  with  certain 
tendencies  in  the  government  of  a  Pontiff?  What 
manner  of  sons  are  you  who  talk  of  denying  your 
mother  because  her  dress  is  not  to  your  taste? 
Can  a  dress  change  the  maternal  bosom?  When 
resting  there,  you  tearfully  confess  your  infirmities 
to  Christ,  and  Christ  heals  you,  do  you  speculate 
concerning  the  authenticity  of  a  passage  in  St. 
John,  the  true  author  of  the  Fourth  Gospel,  or  the 


292  The  Saint 

two  Isaiahs?  When,  gathered  there,  you  unite 
yourselves  to  Christ  in  the  sacrament,  are  you 
disturbed  by  the  decrees  of  the  Index,  or  of  the 
Holy  Office?  When,  lying  there,  you  pass  into 
the  shadows  of  death,  is  the  peace  it  sheds  about 
you  any  less  sweet  because  a  Pope  is  opposed  to 
Christian  Democracy? 

"My  friends,  you  say  'We  have  rested  in  the 
shade  of  this  tree,  but  now  its  bark  is  splitting, 
is  being  dried  up,  the  tree  will  die;  let  us  seek 
another  tree. '  The  tree  will  not  die.  If  you  had 
ears  you  would  hear  the  movement  of  the  new 
bark  which  is  forming,  which  will  have  its  span 
of  life,  which  will  crack,  will  be  dried  up  in  its  turn 
only  to  be  replaced  by  another  coat  of  bark.  The 
tree  does  not  perish,  the  tree  grows." 

Benedetto  sat  down,  exhausted,  and  was  silent. 
There  was  a  movement  among  the  audience  like 
the  shuddering  of  waves  surging  towards  him. 
Raising  his  hands,  he  stopped  them. 

"Friends,"  he  said,  in  a  weary,  sweet  voice, 
"listen  to  me  once  more.  Scribes  and  Pharisees, 
elders  and  princes  among  priests,  have  striven 
in  all  times  against  innovations,  as  they  strive 
to-day.  It  is  not  for  me  to  speak  to  you  of  them ; 
God  will  judge  them.  We  pray  for  all  those  who 
know  not  what  they  do.  But  perhaps  those  of 
the  other  Catholic  camp,  the  militant  camp,  are 
not  entirely  without  sin.  In  the  other  camp 
they  are  intoxicated  with  the  idea  of  modernity. 
Modernity  is  good,  but  the  eternal  is  better.  I 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    293 

fear  that  there  they  do  not  esteem  the  eternal 
at  its  just  value.  It  is  expected  that  the  Church 
of  Christ  will  derive  much  strength  from  united 
Catholic  action  in  the  fields  of  administration 
and  politics,  action  resulting  in  strife,  through 
which  the  Father  will  suffer  insult  at  the  hands 
of  men,  while  not  enough  reliance  is  placed  on  the 
strength  to  be  derived  from  the  light  shed  by  the 
good  deeds  of  each  individual  Christian,  through 
which  light  the  Father  is  glorified.  The  supreme 
object  of  humanity  is  to  glorify  the  Father. 
Now  men  glorify  the  Father  of  such  as  possess  the 
spirit  of  charity,  of  peace,  of  wisdom,  of  purity, 
of  fortitude,  who  give  their  vital  strength  for  the 
good  of  others.  One  such  just  man,  who  professes 
and  practises  Catholicism,  contributes  more  largely 
to  the  glory  of  the  Father,  of  Christ,  of  the  Church, 
than  many  congresses,  many  clubs,  many  Catholic 
victories  in  politics. 

"A  moment  ago  I  heard  some  one  murmur: 
'And  what  about  the  social  action? '  The  social 
action,  my  friends,  is  certainly  salutary,  as  a  work 
of  justice,  of  fraternisation ;  but  like  the  Socialists, 
some  Catholics  put  upon  it  the  seal  of  their  own 
religious  and  political  opinions,  and  refuse  to  admit 
well-intentioned  men,  if  they  do  not  accept  that 
seal ;  they  repulse  the  good  Samaritan,  and  this  is  an 
abomination  in  the  eyes  of  God.  They  also  set  the 
seal  of  Catholicism  upon  works  which  are  instru- 
ments of  gain,  and  this  again  is  an  abomination  in 
the  eyes  of  God.  They  preach  the  just  distribution 


294  The  Saint 

of  riches,  and  that  is  well;  but  they  too  often 
forget  to  preach  also  poverty  of  the  heart,  and 
if  they  are  deterred  from  doing  this  by  mercenary 
motives,  then  this  is  another  abomination  in  the 
eyes  of  God.  Purge  your  actions  of  these  abomi- 
nations. Call  all  well-intentioned  men  to  help, 
especially  in  works  of  justice  and  of  love,  satisfied 
yourselves  to  have  initiated  these  labours.  By 
your  words  and  by  your  example  preach  poverty 
of  the  heart  to  rich  and  poor  alike." 

The  audience  swayed  confusedly,  drawn  in 
different  directions.  Benedetto  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands,  while  he  collected  his  thoughts. 

"You  ask  me  what  you  are  to  do?"  he  said 
uncovering  his  face. 

He  reflected  a  moment  longer  and  then  con- 
tinued : 

"I  see,  in  the  future,  Catholic  laymen  striving 
zealously  for  Christ  and  for  truth,  and  finding  a 
means  of  instituting  unions  different  from  those 
of  the  present.  They  will  one  day  take  arms  as 
knights  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  banding  together  for  the 
united  defence  of  God  and  of  Christian  morality  in 
the  scientific,  artistic,  civil,  and  social  fields;  for 
the  united  defence  of  legitimate  liberty  in  the  re- 
ligious field.  They  shall  be  under  certain  special 
obligations,  not  however  of  community  of  living,  or 
of  celibacy,  integrating  the  office  of  the  Catholic 
clergy,  to  which  they  will  not  belong  as  an  Order 
but  only  as  persons,  in  the  individual  practice 
of  Catholicism.  Pray  that  God's  will  may  be 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World     295 

made  manifest  concerning  this  work  in  the  souls 
of  those  who  contemplate  it.  Pray  that  these 
souls  may  willingly  strip  themselves  of  all  pride 
in  having  conceived  this  work,  and  of  all  hope  of 
witnessing  its  completion,  should  God  manifest 
disapproval  of  it.  If  God  manifest  His  approval 
of  it,  then  pray  that  men  may  be  taught  to  organ- 
ise its  every  detail  to  His  greater  glory,  and  to 
the  greater  glory  of  the  Church.  Amen!" 

He  had  finished,  but  no  one  moved.  All  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  him,  anxious  and  eager  for  other 
words  to  follow  those  last,  unexpected  ones, 
which  had  sounded  so  mysterious  and  grand. 
Many  would  have  liked  to  break  the  silence,  but 
no  one  ventured  to  do  so.  When  Benedetto  rose, 
and  all  gathered  round  him  in  a  respectful  circle, 
the  old  gentleman  with  the  red  face  and  the  white 
hair  rose  also,  and  said,  his  voice  shaking  with 
emotion. 

"You  will  suffer  insult  and  blows;  you  will  be 
crowned  with  thorns  and  given  gall  to  drink;  you 
will  be  derided  by  the  Pharisees  and  the  heathen ; 
you  will  not  see  the  future  you  long  for,  but  the 
future  is  yours;  the  disciples  of  your  disciples 
will  see  it! " 

He  embraced  Benedetto  and  kissed  him  on  the 
brow.  Two  or  three  of  those  nearest  him  clapped 
their  hands  timidly,  and  then  a  burst  of  applause 
swept  through  the  room.  Benedetto,  greatly 
agitated,  signed  to  a  fair-haired  young  man,  who 
had  come  to  the  house  with  him,  and  who  now 


296  The  Saint 

hastened  to  his  side,  his  face  radiant  wich  emotion 
and  joy.     Some  one  whispered: 

"A  disciple!" 

Some  one  else  added  softly: 

"Yes,  and  the  favourite!" 

The  master  of  the  house  almost  prostrated 
himself  before  Benedetto,  pouring  out  words  of 
deference  and  gratitude.  Then  one  of  the  priests 
ventured  to  come  forward,  and  said  in  a  tremulous 
voice: 

"Master,  have  you  no  word  of  counsel  for 
us?" 

"Do  not  call  me  master!"  Benedetto  replied, 
still  much  agitated.  "Pray  that  light  may  be 
shed  upon  these  young  men,  upon  our  shepherds, 
and  also  upon  me! " 

When  he  had  left  the  room,  a  crackle  of  voices 
arose,  some  resonant,  others  short  and  hoarse,  for 
astonishment  still  held  these  agitated  minds  in 
check.  Presently,  here  and  there,  the  intense  ex- 
citement burst  forth,  and  spread  in  every  direction. 
Exclamations  of  admiration  broke  from  all  lips, 
some  praising  this  or  that  expression  the  speaker 
had  used,  this  or  that  thought  he  had  uttered, 
while  others  remarked  upon  his  glance,  his  accent, 
or  marvelled  at  the  spirit  of  holiness  which  shone 
in  his  face,  and  which  seemed  to  emanate  from  his 
very  hands.  Soon,  however,  the  master  of  the 
house  dismissed  the  guests,  and  though  his  apolo- 
gies were  profuse,  and  his  words  very  gracious,  still 
his  haste  was  such  as  to  be  almost  discourteous. 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    297 

As  soon  as  he  was  alone  he  unlocked  the 
door,  and,  pushing  it  open,  stood  bowing  on  the 
threshold. 

"Ladies!"  said  he,  and  threw  the  door  wide 
open. 

A  swarm  of  ladies  fluttered  into  the  empty  hall. 
A  middle-aged  spinster  literally  flung  herself 
towards  the  young  man,  and,  clasping  her  hands, 
exclaimed : 

"Oh!  how  grateful  we  are  to  you!  Oh!  what 
a  saint!  I  don't  know  what  prevented  us  from 
rushing  in  and  embracing  him!" 

"Cam!  My  good  creature!"  said  another 
with  the  quiet  irony  of  the  Venetian,  her  fine 
large  eyes  sparkling.  "It  was  probably  because 
the  door  was  locked,  fortunately  for  him!" 

The  ladies  were  twelve  in  number.  The  master 
of  the  house,  Professor  Guarnacci,  son  of  the 
general-agent  of  one  of  them  —  the  Marchesa 
Fermi,  a  Roman — had  spoken  to  her  about  the 
meeting  which  was  to  take  place  at  his  house, 
and  had  mentioned  the  discourse  to  be  pronounced 
by  that  strange  personage  about  whom  all  Rome 
was  already  talking,  knowing  him  as  an  enthusi- 
astic religious  agitator  and  miracle  worker,  most 
popular  in  the  Testaccio  district.  The  Marchesa 
was  determined  to  hear  him  without  being  seen. 
She  had  arranged  everything  with  Guarnacci, 
and  had  admitted  three  or  four  friends  into  the 
conspiracy,  each  in  her  turn  obtaining  permission 
to  introduce  others. 


298  The  Saint 

They  appeared  a  strangely  assorted  company. 
Many  were  in  evening  toilettes,  two  were  dressed 
precisely  like  Friends,  while  only  one  lady  wore 
black. 

The  two  Friends,  who  were  foreigners,  seemed 
quite  beside  themselves  with  enthusiasm,  and 
were  highly  incensed  against  the  Marchesa,  a 
sceptical,  very  sarcastic  old  woman,  who  remarked 
calmly : 

"Yes,  yes,  he  spoke  very  well;  but  I  should 
have  liked  to  see  his  face  while  he  was  speaking." 

Declaring  she  could  judge  men  far  better  by 
their  faces  than  by  their  words,  the  old  Marchesa 
reproached  Guarnacci  for  not  having  made  a  hole 
in  the  door,  or  at  least  left  the  key  in  the  lock. 

"You  are  too  holy,"  she  said.  "You  do  not 
understand  women! " 

Guarnacci  laughed,  apologising  with  all  the 
consideration  due  to  his  father's  employer,  and 
assured  her  that  Benedetto  was  as  beautiful  as  an 
angel.  A  rather  insipid  young  woman  who  had 
come,  "Goodness  only  knows  why!"  the  two 
Friends  thought  angrily,  announced,  in  quiet 
tones,  that  she  had  seen  him  twice,  and  that  he 
was  ugly. 

"That  is,  of  course,  according  to  your  idea  of 
beauty,  signora!"  one  of  the  Friends  remarked 
sourly,  while  the  other  added  in  a  low  tone, 
intended  to  enhance  its  sting,  a  poisonous 
"  Naturellement!" 

The  insipid  young  woman,  her  colour  deepening 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    299 

with  embarrassment  and  vexation,  replied  that 
he  was  pale  and  thin,  and  the  two  Friends  ex- 
changed glances  and  smiles  of  tacit  contempt. 
But  where  had  she  seen  him?  Two  other  insipid 
young  women  were  curious  to  know  this. 

"Why,  on  both  occasions  in  my  sister-in-law's 
garden, "  she  answered. 

"He  is  always  in  the  garden!"  the  Marchesa 
exclaimed.  "  Does  the  angel  grow  in  a  flower-bed 
or  in  a  pot?  " 

The  insipid  young  woman  laughed,  and  the 
Friends  shot  furious  glances  at  the  Marchesa. 

Tea,  which  had  been  included  in  Guarnacci's 
invitation,  was  then  brought  in. 

"A  delightful  conversation,  is  it  not?"  Signora 
Albacina,  wife  of  the  Honourable  Albacina,  Under- 
secretary of  the  Home  Office,  said  softly  to  the 
lady  in  black,  who  had  not  once  spoken.  She 
now  smiled  sadly  without  answering. 

Tea  was  served  by  the  Professor  and  his  sister, 
and  put  an  end  to  conversation  for  a  few  moments. 
It  soon  burst  forth  again,  however,  the  topic 
being  Benedetto's  discourse.  There  ensued  such 
a  confusion  of  senseless  remarks,  of  worthless  opin- 
ions, of  would-be  wise  sayings  devoid  of  wisdom 
that  the  lady  in  black  proposed  to  Signora  Albacina, 
in  whose  company  she  had  come,  that  they  should 
take  their  departure.  But  at  that  point  the 
Marchesa  Fermi,  having  discovered  a  small  bell 
on  the  mantel-shelf,  began  ringing  it,  to  obtain 
silence. 


300  The  Saint 

"I  should  like  to  hear  about  this  garden,"  she 
said. 

The  Friends  and  the  middle-aged  spinster, 
engaged  in  a  warm  discussion  of  Benedetto's 
Catholic  orthodoxy,  would  not  have  left  off  for  ten 
bells,  had  not  the  spinister's  curiosity  been  roused 
by  the  word  "garden."  It  now  burst  forth 
unchecked !  Garden  indeed !  The  Professor  must 
tell  them  all  he  knew  about  this  Father  Hecker, 
who  was  an  Italian  and  a  layman.  Partly  to 
display  her  knowledge,  partly  from  thought- 
lessness, she  had  already  bestowed  this  title  upon 
Benedetto.  The  insipid  young  woman  consulted 
her  watch.  Her  carriage  must  be  at  the  door. 
Little  Signorina  Guarnacci  said  there  were 
already  four  or  five  carriages  at  the  door. 
The  insipid  young  woman  was  anxious  to  reach 
the  Valle  in  time  for  the  third  act  of  the 
comedy,  and  two  other  ladies,  who  had  engage- 
ments, left  at  the  same  time.  The  Marchesa 
Fermi  remained. 

"Make  haste,  Professor,"  she  said,  "for  my 
daughter  is  expecting  me  this  evening,  with  those 
other  ladies  whose  shoulders  are  on  view!  " 

"Do  make  haste,  then!  "  said  the  middle-aged 
spinster,  contemptuously.  "Afterwards  you  can 
speak  for  the  benefit  of  the  poor  creatures  who  do 
not  show  their  shoulders!  " 

A  fair-haired,  extremely  handsome  foreigner, 
in  a  very  low  gown,  cast  a  withering  glance  at  the 
poor,  lean,  carefully  covered  little  shoulders  of  the 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    301 

contemptuous  spinster,  who,  greatly  vexed,  grew 
as  red  as  a  lobster. 

"Well,  then,"  the  Professor  began,  "as  the 
Marchesa,  and  probably  the  other  ladies  who  are 
in  such  a  hurry,  already  know  as  much  as  I  do 
myself  about  the  Saint  of  Jenne,  before  he  left 
Jenne,  I  will  omit  that  part  of  the  story.  A 
month  ago,  then,  in  October,  I  did  not  even 
remember  having  read  in  the  papers,  in  June  or 
July,  about  this  Benedetto,  who  was  preaching 
and  performing  miracles  at  Jenne.  Well,  one  day, 
coming  out  of  San  Marcello,  I  met  a  certain 
Porretti,  who  used  to  write  for  the  Osservatore,  but 
does  so  no  longer.  This  Porretti  walked  on  with 
me,  and  we  spoke  of  the  condemnation  of  Giovanni 
Selva's  works  which  is  expected  from  day  to  day, 
and  which — by  the  way — has  not  yet  been 
pronounced.  Porretti  told  me  there  was  a  friend 
of  Selva's  in  Rome  at  present  who  would  be  even 
more  talked  of  than  Selva  himself.  '  Who  is  he? ' 
I  inquired.  '  The  Saint  of  Jenne, '  he  replied,  and 
proceeded  to  tell  me  the  following  story.  Two 
priests,  well  known  in  Rome  as  terrible  Pharisees, 
caused  this  man  to  be  driven  away  from  Jenne. 
He  retired  to  Subiaco,  stayed  with  the  Selvas, 
who  were  spending  the  summer  there,  and  fell 
seriously  ill.  Upon  his  recovery  he  came  to  Rome 
— about  the  middle  of  July.  Professor  Mayda, 
another  friend  of  Selva's,  engaged  him  as  under- 
gardener  at  the  villa  which  he  built  two  years  ago 
on  the  Aventine,  below  Sant'  Anselmo.  The  new 


302  The  Saint 

under-gardener,  who  wished  to  be  called  simply 
Benedetto,  as  at  Jenne,  soon  became  popular  in 
the  whole  Testaccio  quarter.  He  distributes  his 
bread  among  the  poor,  comforts  the  sick,  and,  it 
seems,  has  really  healed  one  or  two  by  the  laying 
on  of  hands  and  by  prayer.  He  has,  in  fact, 
become  so  popular  that  Professor  Mayda's  daugh- 
ter-in-law, notwithstanding  her  faith  and  piety, 
would  gladly  dismiss  him,  on  account  of  the  annoy- 
ance his  many  visitors  cause.  But  her  father-in- 
law  treats  him  with  the  greatest  consideration. 
If  he  allows  him  to  rake  the  paths  and  water  the 
flowers,  it  is  only  because  he  respects  his  saintly 
ideals,  and  he  limits  the  hours  of  work,  making 
them  as  short  as  possible.  He  wishes  to  leave 
him  perfectly  free  to  fulfil  his  religious  mission. 
Mayda  himself  often  goes  into  the  garden  to  talk 
of  religion  with  his  under-gardener.  To  please 
him  Benedetto  has  abandoned  the  diet  he  ob- 
served at  Jenne,  where  he  ate  nothing  but  bread 
and  herbs,  and  drank  only  water;  he  now  eats 
meat  and  drinks  wine.  To  please  Benedetto, 
the  Professor  distributes  these  things  in  large 
quantities  among  the  sick  of  the  district.  Many 
people  laugh  at  Benedetto  and  insult  him,  but  the 
populace  venerates  him  as  did  the  people  of  Jenne 
in  the  beginning.  His  deeds  of  charity  to  the  soul 
are  even  greater  than  his  deeds  of  charity  to  the 
body.  He  has  freed  certain  families  from  moral 
disorders,  and  for  this  his  life  was  threatened  by 
a  woman  of  evil  repute;  he  has  persuaded  some 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    303 

to  go  to  church  who,  since  their  childhood,  have 
never  set  foot  inside  a  church.  The  Benedictines 
of  Sant'  Anselmo  are  well  aware  of  these  things. 
Then,  two  or  three  times  a  week,  in  the  evening, 
he  speaks  in  the  Catacombs." 

The  middle-aged  spinister  gasped! 

"In  the  Catacombs?" 

She  leaned,  shuddering,  towards  the  speaker, 
while  one  of  the  Friends  murmured:  " Mon  Dieu! 
Mon  Dieu!"  and  another  voice,  laden  with 
reverent  surprise,  said: 

"How  terrifying!" 

"Well,"  the  young  man  continued,  smiling, 
"Porretti  said  'in  the  Catacombs,'  but  he  meant 
in  a  secret  place,  known  to  few.  At  present  I 
myself  know  its  whereabouts." 

"Ah!"  ejaculated  the  spinister.  "You  know? 
Where  is  it?" 

Guarnacci  did  not  answer,  and,  perceiving  her 
indiscretion,  she  added  hastily. 

"I  beg  your  pardon!     I  beg  your  pardon  I" 

"We  shall  find  out,  we  shall  find  out!" 
said  the  Marchesa.  "  But  tell  me,  my  dear  boy, 
is  not  this  saint  of  yours,  who  preaches  in  secret, 
a  kind  of  heresiarch?  What  do  the  priests  say  to 
him?" 

"To-night  you  might  have  seen  three  or  four 
here  who  went  away  perfectly  satisfied." 

"They  must  be  very  unpriestly  priests,  badly 
baked  priests,  counterfeit  priests.  But  what  do 
the  others  say?  Mark  my  words,  sooner  or  later, 


304  The  Saint 

the  others  will  apply  the  torcibudella,  the  '  entrail 
twister,'  to  him." 

With  this  pleasing  prophecy  the  Marchesa 
departed,  followed  by  all  the  bare  shoulders. 

The  middle-aged  spinister  and  the  Friends, 
glad  to  be  rid  of  that  contemptible,  mundane 
bevy,  assailed  the  Professor  with  questions. 
Must  he  really  not  tell  where  the  modern  Cata- 
combs were?  How  many  people  met  there? 
Women  also?  What  were  the  subjects  of  his  dis- 
courses? What  did  the  monks  of  Sant'  Anselmo 
say?  And  was  anything  known  concerning  this 
man's  previous  career?  The  Professor  parried 
the  questions  as  best  he  might,  and  simply 
repeated  to  them  the  words  of  one  of  the  fathers 
at  Sant'  Anselmo:  "If  there  were  a  Benedetto 
for  every  parish  in  Rome,  Rome  would  indeed 
become  the  Holy  City. ' '  But  when — all  the  others 
having  left — he  found  himself  alone  with  Signora 
Albacina  and  the  silent  lady,  who  were  waiting 
for  their  carriage,  he  intimated  to  the  former — 
to  whom  he  was  bound  by  ties  of  friendship — 
that  he  would  willingly  tell  more,  but  that  he  was 
embarrassed  by  the  presence  of  a  stranger,  and  he 
begged  to  be  presented  to  her.  Signora  Albacina 
had  forgotten  to  perform  this  ceremony.  "Pro- 
fessor Guarnacci, "  said  she,  "Signora  Dessalle, 
a  dear  friend  of  mine." 

The  "Catacombs"  meant  the  very  hall  they 

•  A  horrible  form  of  torture  applied  by  the  Romans  tu 
several  early  Christian  martyrs.  [Translators  note.] 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    305 

were  in  at  the  present  moment.  At  first  the  meet- 
ings had  been  held  at  the  Selvas'  apartment,  in 
Via  Arenula.  There  were  several  reasons  why  that 
place  had  not  seemed  quite  suitable.  Guarnacci, 
becoming  a  disciple,  had  offered  his  own  house. 
The  meetings  were  held  there  twice  a  week. 
Among  those  who  attended  them  were  the  Selvas, 
Signora  Selva's  sister,  a  few  priests,  the  Venetian 
lady  who  had  just  left,  some  young  men — among 
these  he  might  mention  a  certain  Alberti,  a 
favourite  with  the  Master,  who  this  evening  had 
come  and  gone  with  him,  and  a  Jew,  whose  name 
was  Viterbo,  and  who  was  soon  to  become  a 
Catholic;  of  him  the  Master  expected  great  things. 
Besides  these  a  journeyman  printer,  several 
artists,  and  even  two  members  of  Parliament 
came  regularly.  The  object  of  these  meetings 
was  to  acquaint  such  as  are  drawn  to  Christ, 
but  who  shrink  from  Catholicism,  with  what 
Catholicism  really  is,  the  vital  and  indestructible 
essence  of  the  Catholic  religion,  and  to  show  the 
purely  human  character  of  those  different  forms, 
which  are  what  render  it  repugnant  to  many,  but 
which  are  changeable,  are  changing,  and  will 
continue  to  change,  through  the  elaboration  of  the 
inner,  divine  element,  combined  with  the  external 
influences,  the  influences  of  science  and  of  the 
public  conscience.  Benedetto  was  very  particu- 
lar about  granting  admission  to  the  meetings, 
for  no  one  was  more  skilled  than  he  in  the  delicate 
task  of  dealing  with  souls,  respecting  their  purity, 


306  The  Saint 

bringing  himself  down  to  the  small  ones,  soaring 
with  the  high  ones,  and  using  with  timid  souls 
that  careful  language  which  instructs  without 
troubling. 

"The  Marchesa, "  continued  the  Professor, 
"  says  he  must  be  an  heresiarch,  and  the  priests 
who  follow  him  heretics.  No.  With  Benedetto 
there  is  no  danger  of  heresies  or  schisms.  At 
the  very  last  meeting  he  demonstrated  that 
schisms  and  heresies,  besides  being  blameworthy 
in  themselves,  are  fatal  to  the  Church,  not  only 
because  they  deprive  her  of  souls,  but  because 
they  deprive  her  of  elements  of  progress  as  well ; 
for  if  the  innovators  remained  subject  to  the 
Church,  their  errors  would  perish,  and  that  ele- 
ment of  truth,  that  element  of  goodness,  which 
— in  a  certain  measure — is  nearly  always  united 
to  error  would  become  vital  in  the  body  of  the 
Church." 

Signora  Albacina  observed  that  all  this  was 
very  beautiful,  and  if  that  was  how  matters  really 
stood,  certainly  the  Marchesa 's  prophecy  would 
not  be  fulfilled. 

"The  prophecy  about  the  torcibudella,  the 
'entrail  twister?'  Ah  no!"  said  the  Professor, 
laughing.  "Such  things  are  not  done  now,  and 
I  do  not  believe  they  ever  were  done.  It  is  all 
calumny!  Only  the  Marchesa  and  certain  others 
like  her  in  Rome  believe  these  things.  A  Roman 
N  priest,  a  priest,  you  understand,  dared  to  warn 
Benedetto,  to  advise  him  to  be  cautious.  But 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    307 

Benedetto  let  him  see  he  must  not  speak  to  him 
of  caution  again.  Therefore  it  will  not  be  the 
torcibudella — no — but  persecution  it  will  be  '  Yes, 
indeed! — Those  two  Roman  priests  who  were  at 
Jenne  have  not  been  asleep.  I  did  not  wish  to 
say  so  before,  because  the  Marchesa  is  not  the 
person  to  tell  such  things  to,  but  there  is  much 
trouble  brewing.  Benedetto's  every  step  has  been 
watched;  Professor  Mayda's  daughter-in-law  has 
been  made  use  of,  through  the  confessional,  to 
obtain  information  concerning  his  language,  and 
they  have  found  out  about  the  meetings.  The 
presence  of  Selva  is  enough  to  give  them  the 
character  these  people  abhor,  and  as  they  are 
powerless  against  a  layman,  it  seems  they  are 
trying  to  obtain  the  help  of  the  civil  law  against 
Benedetto;  they  are  appealing  to  the  police  and 
to  the  judges.  You  are  surprised?  But  it  is  so. 
As  yet  nothing  has  been  decided,  nothing  has  been 
done,  but  they  are  plotting.  We  were  informed 
of  this  by  a  foreign  ecclesiastic,  who  chattered 
foolishly  on  a  former  occasion ;  but  this  time  he  has 
chattered  to  good  purpose.  Materials  for  a  penal 
action  are  being  prepared  and  invented." 

The  silent  lady  shuddered,  and  opened  her  lips 
at  last. 

"  How  can  that  be  possible? "  she  said. 

"My  dear  lady, "  said  the  Professor,  "you  little 
know  of  what  some  of  these  intransigenti,  these 
non-concessionists  in  priestly  robes,  are  capable. 
The  secular  non-concessionists  are  lambs  compared 


3o8  The  Saint 

to  them.  They  are  going  to  make  use  of  an 
unfortunate  accident  which  took  place  at  Jenne. 
Now,  however,  we  are  greatly  encouraged  by  a 
fresh  incident,  of  which  it  would  not  be  wise  to 
speak  to  many,  without  discriminating,  but  which 
is  most  important." 

The  Professor  paused  a  moment,  enjoying  the 
lively  curiosity  he  had  awakened,  and  which, 
though  they  did  not  speak,  shone  in  the  eager 
eyes  of  the  two  ladies. 

"  The  other  day, "  he  continued,  "  Cardinal 's 

secretary,  a  young  German  priest,  went  to 
Sant'  Anselmo  to  confer  with  the  monks.  In 
consequence  of  this  visit  Benedetto  was  summoned 
to  Sant'  Anselmo,  where  the  Benedictines  hold 
him  in  great  affection  and  esteem.  He  was  asked 
if  he  did  not  intend  to  pay  homage  to  His  Holiness, 
and  beg  for  an  audience.  He  replied  that  he  had 
come  to  Rome  with  this  desire  in  his  heart;  that 
he  had  waited  for  a  sign  from  Divine  Providence, 
and  that  now  the  sign  had  come.  Then  he  was 
informed  that  His  Holiness  would  certainly  re- 
ceive him  most  willingly,  and  he  asked  for  an  au- 
dience. This  was  disclosed  to  Giovanni  Selva  by 
a  German  Benedictine." 

"  And  when  is  he  to  go?"  Signora  Albacina  asked. 

"The  day  after  to-morrow  in  the  evening." 

The  Professor  added  that  the  Vatican  was 
maintaining  the  strictest  secrecy  in  regard  to  this 
matter,  that  Benedetto  had  been  forbidden  to 
mention  it  to  any  one,  and  that  nothing  would 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    309 

have  transpired  had  it  not  been  for  the  German 
monk's  indiscretion.  Benedetto's  friends  hoped 
much  good  would  come  of  this  visit.  Signora 
Albacina  asked  what  Benedetto  intended  to  say 
to  the  Pontiff.  The  Professor  smiled.  Bene- 
detto had  not  taken  any  one  into  his  confidence, 
and  no  one  had  ventured  to  question  him.  The 
Professor  fancied  he  would  speak  in  favour  of 
Selva,  would  beg  that  his  books  might  not  be 
placed  on  the  Index. 

"That  would  be  very  little,"  said  Signora 
Albacina  in  a  low  tone. 

Jeanne  uttered  a  low  murmur  of  assent. 

"Very  little  indeed!"  she  exclaimed,  almost  as 
if  the  Professor  were  to  blame.  He  appeared 
much  surprised  at  this  sudden  outburst,  after 
such  a  long  silence.  He  apologised,  saying  he 
had  not  intended  to  assert  that  Benedetto  would 
not  speak  to  the  Pope  of  other  matters.  He  had 
simply  meant  to  say  that  he  believed  he  would 
certainly  mention  that  subject.  Signora  Albacina 
could  not  understand  this  desire  of  the  Pope's 
to  see  Benedetto.  How  did  his  friends  explain 
it?  What  did  Selva  think  about  it?  Ah!  no  one 
could  explain  it,  neither  Selva  nor  any  one  else. 

" I  can  explain  it!"  said  Jeanne  eagerly,  pleased 
to  be  able  to  understand  what  puzzled  all  others. 
"  Was  not  the  Pope  once  Bishop  of  Brescia?  " 

Guarnacci's  smile  was  half  admiring,  half 
ironical,  as  he  answered.  Ah!  the  Signora  was 
well  informed  concerning  Benedetto's  past.  The 


310  The  Saint 

Signora  knew  certain  things  to  be  facts,  things 
which  were  whispered  in  Rome,  but  which 
nevertheless,  were  doubted  by  many.  Of  one 
fact,  however,  she  was  ignorant.  The  Pope  had 
never  been  Bishop  of  Brescia.  He  had  occupied 
two  episcopal  chairs  in  the  south.  Jeanne  did  not 
answer ;  she  was  vexed  with  herself,  and  mortified 
at  having  so  nearly  betrayed  her  secret.  Signora 
Albacina  wished  to  know  what  opinion  Benedetto 
had  of  the  Pope. 

"Oh,  in  the  Pope  he  sees  and  venerates  the 
office  alone,"  said  the  Professor.  "At  least,  I 
believe  so.  I  have  never  heard  him  speak  of  the 
man,  but  I  have  heard  him  speak  of  the  office. 
He  made  it  the  subject  of  a  magnificent  discourse 
one  evening,  comparing  Catholicism  and  Protest- 
antism, and  exposing  his  ideal  of  the  government 
of  the  Church:  a  principality  and  just  liberty. 
As  to  the  new  Pope,  little  is  known  of  him  as  yet. 
He  is  said  to  be  saintly,  intelligent,  sickly,  and 
weak." 

While  accompanying  the  ladies  down  the  dark 
stairs  to  their  carriage,  the  Professor  remarked: 

"  What  is  greatly  feared  is  that  Benedetto  will 
not  live.  Mayda  at  least  fears  this." 

Signora  Albacina,  who  was  descending  the  stairs 
leaning  on  the  Professor's  arm,  exclaimed,  without 
pausing : 

"Oh!  poor  fellow!  What  is  the  matter  with 
him?" 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    31 ' 

"Ma!  Who  can  say?"  the  Professor  replied. 
"Some  incurable  disease,  it  would  seem,  the 
consequence  of  typhoid  fever,  which  he  had  at 
Subiaco,  but  above  all,  of  the  life  of  hardship  he 
led,  a  life  of  penance  and  fasting." 

And  they  continued  their  long  descent  in  silence. 

It  was  only  on  reaching  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
that  they  perceived  their  companion  had  remained 
behind.  The  Professor  hastily  retraced  his  steps, 
and  found  Jeanne  standing  on  the  second  landing, 
clinging  to  the  banisters.  At  first  she  neither 
spoke  nor  moved;  but  presently  she  murmured: 

"I  cannot  see! " 

Guarnacci,  not  knowing,  did  not  notice  that 
moment  of  silence,  or  the  low  and  uncertain  tone 
of  her  voice.  He  offered  her  his  arm,  and  led  her 
down,  apologising  for  the  darkness,  and  explaining 
that  the  proprietor's  avarice  was  to  blame  for  it. 
Jeanne  entered  Signora  Albacina's  carriage,  which 
was  to  take  her  to  the  Grand  Hotel.  On  the 
way  Signora  Albacina  spoke  with  regret  of  what 
Guarnacci  had  just  told  her.  Jeanne  did  not 
open  her  lips.  Her  silence  troubled  her  friend. 

"Were  you  not  pleased  with  the  discourse?" 
she  said.  She  was  in  complete  ignorance  of 
Jeanne's  religious  opinions. 

"Yes,"    her    companion    answered.    "Why?" 

"Oh,  nothing!  I  thought  you  seemed  dis- 
satisfied. Then  you  are  not  sorry  you  came?" 

Signora  Albacina  was  greatly  astonished  when 
Jeanne  seized  her  hand  and  replied: 


312  The  Saint 

"  I  am  so  grateful  to  you! " 

The  voice  was  low  and  quiet,  the  pressure  of 
the  hand  almost  violent. 

"  Indeed !  indeed ! "  thought  Signora  Albacina- 
"This  is  one  of  the  future  'Ladies  of  the  Holy 
Spirit'!" 

"  For  my  part, "  she  said  aloud,  "  I  am  sure  I 
shall  keep  to  my  old  religion,  the  religion  of  the 
non-concessionists.  They  may  be  Pharisees  or 
anything  else  you  like,  but  I  fear  that  if  this 
old  religion  is  subjected  to  so  much  retouching 
and  restoring,  it  will  tumble  down,  and  nothing 
will  be  left  standing.  Besides,  if  we  followed 
these  Benedettos,  too  many  things  would  have  to 
be  changed.  No,  no!  However,  the  man  interests 
me  extremely.  Now  we  must  try  to  see  him. 
We  must  see  him !  Especially  as  he  seems  doomed 
to  speedy  death.  Don't  you  think  so?  How 
can  we  manage  it?  Let  us  think! " 

"I  have  no  wish  to  see  him,"  Jeanne  said 
hastily. 

"Really?"  her  friend  exclaimed.  "But  how  is 
that  ?  Explain  this  riddle ! ' ' 

"It  is  quite  simple.  I  have  no  desire  to  see 
him." 

"Curious!"  thought  Signora  Albacina.  The 
carriage  drew  up  before  the  entrance  to  the 
Grand  H6tel. 

In  the  hall  Jeanne  met  Noemi  and  her  brother 
in-law,  who  were  coming  out. 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    313 

"At  last!"  said  Noemi.  "Run,  make  haste, 
Your  brother  is  furious  with  this  Jeanne,  who 
stays  away  so  long!  We  have  just  left  him, 
because  the  doctor  has  arrived." 

The  Dessalles  had  been  in  Rome  a  fortnight. 
Cold,  damp  weather  at  the  beginning  of  October, 
a  projected  essay  on  Bernini,  which  had  succeeded 
the  projected  novel,  had  persuaded  Carlino  to 
satisfy  Signora  Albacina  sooner  than  he  had 
intended,  by  leaving  Villa  Diedo  before  winter 
set  in  for  the  milder  climate  of  Rome.  This  to  the 
great  joy  of  his  sister.  Two  or  three  days  after 
his  arrival  he  had  a  slight  attack  of  bronchitis. 
He  declared  he  was  in  consumption,  shut  himself 
up  in  his  room,  with  the  intention  of  remaining 
there  all  winter,  wished  to  see  the  doctor  twice 
a  day,  and  tyrannised  over  Jeanne  with  merciless 
egotism,  even  numbering  her  moments  of  freedom. 
She  made  herself  his  slave ;  she  seemed  to  delight 
in  this  unreasonable  extra  burden,  of  sacrifice 
which  overflowed  the  measure  of  her  sisterly 
affection.  In  her  heart  she  offered  it,  with  sweet 
eagerness,  to  Benedetto.  She  often  saw  the 
Selvas  and  Noemi;  not  at  their  home,  but  at 
the  Grand  Hotel.  The  Selvas  themselves  were 
captivated  by  the  fascination  of  this  woman, 
so  superior,  so  beautiful,  so  gentle  and  sad.  All 
she  had  heard  from  Guarnacci  concerning  Bene- 
detto she  had  already  heard  from  Noemi.  But 
she  had  not  been  aware  of  Professor  Mayda's 


314  The  Saint 

sad  opinion.  Partly  from  kindness,  but  partly 
also  that  her  own  emotion  might  not  be  revealed, 
Noemi  had  hidden  it  from  her. 

Car  lino  received  her  unkindly.  The  doctor, 
who  had  found  his  pulse  rather  frequent,  concluded 
at  once  that  it  was  an  angry  pulse.  He  jested  a 
few  minutes  about  the  serious  nature  of  the  illness, 
and  then  took  his  departure.  Carlino  inquired 
roughly  where  Jeanne  had  been  so  long,  and  she 
did  not  hesitate  to  tell  him.  She  did  not,  however, 
mention  Benedetto's  real  name. 

"Were  you  not  ashamed,"  said  he,  "to  be 
eavesdropping  like  that? " 

Without  giving  her  time  to  answer,  he  began 
protesting  against  the  new  tendencies  he  had 
discovered  in  her. 

"To-morrow  you  will  be  going  to  confession, 
and  the  day  after  you  will  be  reciting  the  rosary!" 

Underneath  his  usually  tolerant  and  courteous 
language,  and  the  liking  he  displayed  for  not  a 
few  priests,  lurked  a  real  anti-religious  mania. 
The  idea  that  his  sister  might,  some  day,  draw 
near  to  the  priests,  to  faith,  to  acts  of  piety,  nearly 
drove  him  out  of  his  senses. 

Jeanne  did  not  answer,  but  meekly  asked  if 
she  should  read  to  him,  as  she  was  in  the  habit 
of  doing  in  the  evening.  Carlino  declared  shortly 
that  he  did  not  wish  to  be  read  to,  and,  pretending 
to  feel  draughts,  kept  her  for  at  least  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  inspecting  the  doors,  the  windows, 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    315 

the  walls,  and  the  floor  itself,  with  a  lighted  candle 
in  her  hand.  Then  he  sent  her  to  bed. 

But  when  Jeanne  reached  her  own  room  she 
thought  neither  of  sleeping  nor  of  undressing. 
She  put  out  the  light,  and  sat  down  on  the  bed. 

Carriages  rumbled  in  the  street,  steps  sounded, 
and  women's  dresses  rustled  in  the  corridor; 
sitting  motionless  there  in  the  dark  she  did  not 
hear.  She  had  put  out  the  light  that  she  might 
think,  that  she  might  see  only  her  own  thoughts, 
only  that  idea  which  had  taken  possession  of  her 
while  coming  down-stairs  at  Casa  Guarnacci 
leaning  on  the  Professor's  arm,  after  she  had  heard 
those  terrible  words:  "We  fear  he  will  not  live!" 
and  had  almost  lost  consciousness.  In  the 
carriage  with  Signora  Albacina,  in  the  room  with 
her  brother,  even  while  obliged  to  talk  with  one 
or  the  other,  to  pay  attention  to  so  many  different 
things,  this  idea,  this  proposal,  which  the  burning 
heart  was  making  to  the  will,  had  been  continually 
flashing  within  her.  Now  it  flashed  no  longer. 
Jeanne  contemplated  it  lying  quiet  within  her. 
In  that  figure  sitting  motionless  on  the  bed,  in  the 
darkness,  two  souls  were  confronting  each  other 
in  silence.  A  humble  Jeanne,  passionate,  sure 
of  being  able  to  sacrifice  all  to  love,  was  measur- 
ing her  strength  against  a  Jeanne  unconsciously 
haughty,  and  sure  of  possessing  a  hard  and  cold 
truth.  The  rumbling  of  the  carriages  was  dying 
out  in  the  street ;  the  steps  and  the  rustlings  were 
less  frequent  in  the  corridor.  Suddenly  the  two 


The  Saint 


Jeannes  seemed  to  mingle  once  more  and  become 
one,  who  thought  : 

"  When  they  announce  his  death  to  me,  I  shall 
be  able  to  say  to  myself:  At  least,  you  did  that!" 

She  rose,  turned  on  the  light,  seated  herself 
at  the  writing-table,  chose  a  sheet  of  paper,  and 
wrote: 


"  To  Piero  Maironi,  the  night  of  October  29,- 
"  I  believe. 


"  JEANNE  DESSALLE." 

When  she  had  written,  she  gazed  a  long,  long 
time  at  the  solemn  words. 

The  longer  she  gazed,  the  farther  the  two 
Jeannes  seemed  to  draw  apart.  The  unconsciously 
proud  Jeanne  overpowered  and  crushed  the  other 
almost  without  a  struggle.  Filled  with  a  mortal 
bitterness,  she  tore  the  sheet,  stained  with  the 
word  it  was  impossible  to  maintain,  impossible 
even  to  write  honestly.  The  light  once  more 
extinguished,  she  accused  the  Almighty — if,  indeed, 
He  existed — of  cruelty,  and  wept  in  this  darkness 
of  her  own  making,  wept  unrestrainedly. 

The  clock  of  St.  Peter's  struck  eight.  Bene- 
detto left  a  little  group  of  people  at  the  corner 
of  Via  di  Porta  Angelica,  and  turned,  alone,  into 
Bernini's  colonnade,  his  steps  directed  towards 
the  bronze  portal.  He  paused  to  listen  to  the 
roar  of  the  fountains,  to  gaze  at  the  clustered 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    317 

lights  of  the  four  candelabra  round  the  obelisk, 
and — tremulous,  opaque  against  the  moon's  face — 
the  mighty  jet  of  the  fountain  on  the  left.  In  five 
minutes,  or,  perhaps,  in  fifteen  minutes,  he  would 
find  himself  in  the  presence  of  the  Pope.  His 
mind  was  concentrated  on  this  culminating 
point,  and  vibrated  there  as  did  the  sparkling, 
ever-rising  water  at  the  apex  of  the  mighty  jet. 
The  square  was  empty.  No  one  would  see  him 
enter  the  Vatican  save  that  spectral  diadem  of 
saints  standing  rigid  over  there  on  the  summit 
of  the  opposite  colonnade.  The  saints  and  the 
fountains  were  saying  to  him  with  one  voice,  that 
he  believed  he  was  passing  through  a  solemn  hour, 
but  that  this  atom  of  time,  he  himself  and  the 
Pontiff,  would  soon  pass  away,  would  be  lost  for 
ever  in  the  kingdom  of  forgetfulness,  while  the 
fountains  continued  their  monotonous  lament, 
and  the  saints  their  silent  contemplation.  But 
he,  on  the  contrary,  felt  that  the  word  of  truth 
is  the  word  of  eternal  life,  and,  concentrating 
his  thoughts  once  more  within  himself,  he  closed 
his  eyes  and  prayed  with  intense  fervour,  as  for 
two  days  he  had  prayed  that  the  Spirit  might 
awaken  this  word  in  his  breast,  might  bring 
it  to  his  lips  when  he  should  stand  before  the 
Pope. 

He  had  expected  some  one  between  eight 
o'clock  and  a  quarter  past.  The  quarter  had 
already  struck,  and  no  one  had  appeared.  He 
turned  and  gazed  at  the  bronze  portal.  Only 


3i8  The  Saint 

one  wing  of  it  was  open,  and  he  could  see  lights 
beyond.  From  time  to  time  small  groups  of 
dwarfish  figures  passed  into  it,  as  tiny,  heedless 
moths  might  fly  into  the  yawning  jaws  of  a  lion. 
At  last  a  priest  approached  the  portal  from  within 
and  beckoned.  Benedetto  drew  near.  The  priest 
said: 

"You  have  come  about  Sant'  Anselmo?" 

That  was  the  question  which  had  been  agreed 
upon.  When  Benedetto  had  assented,  the  priest 
signed  to  him  to  enter. 

"  Please  come  this  way, "  said  he. 

Benedetto  followed  him.  They  passed  between 
the  pontifical  guards,  who  gave  the  priest  the 
military  salute.  Turning  to  the  right  they 
mounted  the  Scala  Pia.  At  the  entrance  to  the 
courtyard  of  San  Damaso  there  were  other'guards, 
other  salutes,  and  an  order  given  by  the  priest 
in  a  low  tone;  Benedetto  did  not  hear  it.  They 
crossed  the  courtyard,  leaving  the  entrance  to 
the  library  on  their  left  and  on  their  right  the  door 
by  which  the  Pope's  apartments  are  reached. 
High  above  them  the  glass  of  the  Logge  shone  in  the 
moonlight.  Benedetto,  recalling  an  audience  the 
late  Pontiff  had  granted  him,  was  astonished  at 
being  conducted  by  this  strange  way.  Having 
crossed  the  courtyard  in  a  straight  line,  the  priest 
entered  the  narrow  passage  leading  to  the  small 
stairway  called  "dei  Mosaici, "  and  stopped  before 
the  door  opening  on  the  right,  where  the  stairway 
called  "del  Triangolo"  descends. 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    319 

"Are  you  acquainted  with  the  Vatican?"  he 
inquired. 

"  I  am  acquainted  with  the  Museums  and  the 
Logge, "  Benedetto  replied.  "The  predecessor 
of  the  present  Pontiff  once  received  me  in  his 
private  apartment;  but  I  am  not  acquainted  with 
any  other  parts." 

"  You  have  never  been  here?" 

"Never." 

The  priest  preceded  him  up  the  stair,  which  was 
dimly  illuminated  by  small  electric  lights.  Sud- 
denly, where  the  first  flight  reaches  a  landing, 
the  lights  went  out.  Benedetto,  pausing  with  one 
foot  on  the  landing,  heard  his  guide  run  rapidly 
up  some  stairs  on  the  right.  Then  all  was  silence. 
He  supposed  the  light  had  gone  out  by  accident, 
and  that  the  priest  had  gone  to  turn  it  on  again. 
He  waited.  No  light,  no  footfall,  no  voice.  He 
stepped  on  to  the  landing ;  stretching  out  his  hands 
in  the  darkness,  he  touched  a  wall  on  the  left; 
he  went  forward  towards  the  right,  feeling  his  way. 
By  touching  them  with  his  foot  he  became  aware 
of  two  flights  of  stairs  which  branched  from  the 
landing.  He  waited  again,  never  doubting  the 
priest  would  return. 

Five  minutes,  ten  minutes  passed  and  the  priest 
did  not  come.  What  could  have  happened. 
Had  they  wished  to  deceive  him,  to  make  sport 
of  him?  But  why?  Benedetto  would  not  allow 
himself  to  dwell  upon  a  suspicion  about  which 
it  was  useless  to  speculate.  He  reflected  rather 


320  The  Saint 

upon  what  it  was  best  to  do.  It  did  not  seem 
reasonable  to  wait  any  longer.  Had  he  better 
turn  back?  Had  he  better  go  up  still  higher? 
In  that  case,  which  stair  should  be  choose?  He 
looked  into  himself,  questioning  the  Ever-Present 
One. 

No,  he  would  not  turn  back.  The  idea  was 
displeasing  to  him.  He  started  up  one  of  the 
flights,  without  choosing — the  one  leading  to  the 
servants'  rooms.  It  was  short;  presently  Bene- 
detto found  himself  on  another  landing.  Now, 
he  had  heard  the  priest  run  up  many  stairs  rapidly 
and  without  stopping,  and  the  noise  of  his  steps 
had  been  lost  far,  far  above.  He  came  down 
again,  and  tried  the  other  flight.  It  was  longer. 
The  priest  must  have  mounted  this  one.  He 
decided  to  follow  the  priest. 

On  reaching  the  top  he  passed  through  a  low 
door,  and  found  himself  upon  the  Loggia,  illumined 
by  the  moon..  He  looked  about  him.  Near  at 
hand,  on  the  right,  a  gateway  divided  this  Loggia 
from  another  one,  the  two  meeting  there  and 
forming  a  right  angle.  Far  away,  on  the  left, 
the  Loggia  terminated  at  a  closed  door.  The 
full  moon  shone  through  the  great,  glazed  spaces, 
upon  the  pavement;  showed  the  sides  of  the 
courtyard  of  San  Damaso;  and  in  the  back- 
ground, between  the  two  enormous  black  wings 
of  the  Palace,  humble  roofs,  the  trees  of  Villa 
Cesi  and  the  lights  of  Sant'  Onofrio  were  visible. 
Both  the  door  on  the  left,  and  the  gateway 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    321 

on  the  right  appeared  to  be  closed.  Again 
and  again  Benedetto  looked  from  right  to  left. 
Little  by  little  he  began  to  recall  former  impres- 
sions. Yes,  he  had  been  in  that  Loggia  before, 
he  had  seen  that  gateway  when  on  his  way 
to  visit  the  Gallery  of  Inscriptions — the  Via 
Appia  of  the  Vatican — with  an  acquaintance  of 
his,  a  reader  in  the  "Vaticana. "  Yes,  now  he 
remembered  quite  well.  The  door  on  the  left 
at  the  end  of  the  Loggia,  must  lead  to  the  apart- 
ments of  the  Cardinal  Secretary  of  State.  The 
Loggia  beyond  the  gateway  was  that  of  Giovanni 
da  Udine ;  the  great  barred  windows  opening  on  to 
it  were  the  windows  of  the  Borgia  apartment, 
and  the  entrance  to  the  Gallery  of  Inscriptions 
must  be  precisely  in  the  angle.  On  that  former 
occasion  a  Swiss  guard  had  stood  by  the  gate. 
Now  there  was  no  one  there.  The  place  was 
quite  deserted;  on  the  right  and  on  the  left 
silence  reigned. 

To  try  the  door  of  the  Cardinal  Secretary  of 
State's  apartment  was  not  to  be  thought  of. 
Benedetto  pushed  the  gate.  It  was  open.  He 
paused,  finding  himself  before  the  entrance  to 
the  Gallery  of  Inscriptions.  Again  he  listened. 
Profound  silence.  An  inward  voice  seemed  to 
say  to  him:  "Mount  the  steps.  Enter!"  Fear- 
lessly he  mounted  the  five  steps. 

The  Via  Appia  of  the  Vatican,  as  broad,  perhaps, 
as  the  ancient  way,  contained  not  a  single  lamp. 
At  regular  intervals  pale  streaks  of  light  lay 


322  The  Saint 

across  the  pavement,  falling  through  the  windows, 
which,  from  among  the  tombstones,  the  cippi, 
and  the  pagan  sarcophagi,  look  down  upon  Rome. 
No  light  fell  through  the  windows  of  the  Christian 
wall,  which  overlook  the  courtyard  of  the  Belve- 
dere. The  distant  end  of  the  Gallery,  towards 
the  Chiaramonti  Museum,  was  shrouded  in  com- 
plete darkness.  Then,  realising  that  he  was  in 
the  very  heart  of  the  immense  Vatican,  Benedetto 
was  seized  with  a  terror  mingled  with  awe.  He 
approached  a  great  window,  from  whence  he  could 
see  Castel  Sant'  Angelo  and  the  innumerable  tiny 
lights  dotted  over  the  lower  city,  while  higher 
up,  and  more  brilliant,  those  of  the  Quirinal 
shone  against  the  horizon.  Not  the  sight  of 
illumined  Rome,  but  the  sight  of  a  low  and  narrow 
bench,  running  along  below  the  cippi  and  the 
sarcophagi,  calmed  his  spirit.  Then,  in  the  dim 
light,  he  distinguished  a  canopy,  which  was 
already  half  demolished.  What  could  it  mean? 
Along  the  opposite  wall  ran  a  second  bench, 
exactly  like  the  first.  Proceeding,  he  stumbled 
against  something  which  proved  to  be  a  large 
armchair.  Now  terror  had  given  place  to  a 
fixed  purpose.  The  imperious,  inward  voice, 
which  had  already  commanded  him  to  enter, 
said  to  him,  "Go  forward!"  The  voice  was  so 
clear,  so  loud,  that  a  sudden  flash  illumined 
his  memory. 

He  smote  his  forehead.     In  the  Vision  he  had 
seen    himself   in   conversation   with    the    Pope. 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    323 

This  he  had  never  been  able  to  forget.  But  he 
had  forgotten — and  now  the  memory  of  it  had 
flashed  back  to  him — that  a  spirit  had  led  him 
through  the  Vatican  to  the  Pope.  He  moved 
along  the  left-hand  wall,  near  which  he  had 
stumbled  against  the  great  chair.  (He  was  con- 
vinced that  at  the  end  of  the  Gallery  he  should 
find  an  exit,  and  light  at  last.  He  did  remember 
that,  at  the  end,  was  the  gateway  leading  to  the 
Chiaramonti  Museum.  He  went  on,  often  pressing 
his  hand  against  the  wall,  against  the  tombstones. 
Suddenly  he  became  aware  that  what  he  was 
touching  was  neither  marble  nor  stone.  Gently, 
he  beat  upon  the  wall  with  his  fist.  It  was  wood — 
a  door!  Involuntarily  he  stopped  and  waited. 
He  heard  a  step  behind  the  door ;  a  key  turned  in 
the  lock;  a  blade  of  light  slanted  across  the 
Gallery  and  broadened ;  a  black  figure  appeared ; 
the  priest  who  had  abandoned  Benedetto  on  the 
stairs!  He  came  out,  moving  rapidly,  closed 
the  door  behind  him,  and  said  to  Benedetto, 
as  if  nothing  strange  had  taken  place: 

"  You  are  about  to  find  yourself  in  the  presence 
of  His  Holiness." 

He  signed  to  Benedetto  to  enter,  and  again 
closed  the  door,  he  himself  remaining  outside. 

On  entering,  Benedetto  could  distinguish  only 
a  small  table,  a  little  lamp  with  a  green  shade, 
and  a  white  figure  seated  behind  the  table,  and 
facing  him.  He  sank  upon  his  knees. 

The  white  figure  stretched  out  its  arm,  and  said : 


324  The  Saint 

"Rise.     How  did  you   come?" 

The  singularly  sweet  face,  framed  in  grey  hair, 
wore  an  expression  of  astonishment.  The  voice, 
with  its  southern  ring,  betrayed  emotion: 

Benedetto    rose,    and    answered: 

"  From  the  bronze  portal  as  far  as  a  spot  which 
I  cannot  locate,  I  was  accompanied  by  the  priest 
who  was  here  with  Your  Holiness;  from  thence 
I  came  alone." 

"Were  you  familiar  with  the  Vatican?  Did 
they  tell  you,  you  would  find  me  here?" 

When  Benedetto  had  answered  that,  years  ago, 
he  had  paid  a  single  visit  to  the  museums  of  the 
Vatican,  the  Logge,  and  the  Gallery  of  Inscrip- 
tions ;  that  on  that  occasion  he  had  not  reached  the 
Logge  from  the  courtyard  of  San  Damaso ;  that  he 
had  had  no  idea  where  he  should  find  the  Sovereign 
Pontiff,  the  Pope  was  silent  for  a  moment; 
absorbed  in  thought.  Presently  he  said,  tenderly, 
affectionately,  pointing  to  a  chair  opposite  him: 

"Be  seated,  my  son." 

Had  Benedetto  not  been  absorbed  in  contempla- 
tion of  the  Pope's  ascetic  and  gentle  face,  he  would 
have  looked  about  him  not  without  surprise,  while 
his  august  interlocutor  was  engaged  in  gathering 
together  some  papers  which  were  scattered  upon 
the  little  table.  This  was  indeed  a  strange 
reception-room,  a  dusty  chaos  of  old  pictures, 
old  books,  old  furniture.  One  would  have 
pronounced  it  the  ante-room  of  some  library,  of 
some  museum,  which  was  being  rearranged.  But 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    325 

he  was  lost  in  contemplation  of  the  Pope's  face, 
that  thin,  waxen  face,  which  wore  an  ineffable 
expression  of  purity  and  of  kindliness.  He  drew 
nearer,  bent  his  knee,  and  kissed  the  hand  which 
the  Holy  Father  extended  to  him,  saying,  with 
sweet  dignity : 

"  Non  mihi,  sed  Petro." 

Then  Benedetto  sat  down.  The  Pope  passed 
him  a  sheet  of  paper,  and  pushed  the  little  lamp 
nearer  to  him. 

"  Look, "  said  he.    "  Do  you  know  that  writing?" 

Benedetto  looked  and  shuddered,  and  could  not 
check  an  exclamation  of  reverent  sorrow. 

"Yes,"  he  replied.  "It  is  the  writing  of  a 
holy  priest,  whom  I  dearly  loved,  who  is  dead,  and 
whose  name  was  Don  Giuseppe  Flores." 

,His  Holiness  continued: 

"Now  read .     Read  aloud . ' ' 

Benedetto  read: 

"  MONSIGNORE, — 

"I  entrust  to  my  Bishop  the  sealed  packet 
enclosed,  with  this  note,  in  an  envelope  bearing 
your  address.  It  was  left  with  me,  to  be  opened 
after  his  death,  by  Signor  Piero  Maironi,  who  was 
well  known  to  you  before  his  disappearance 
from  the  world.  I  know  not  if  he  be  still  alive 
or  if  he  no  longer  be  among  the  living,  and  I  have 
no  means  of  ascertaining.  I  believe  the  packet 
contains  an  account  of  a  vision  of  a  supernatural 
nature  which  visited  Maironi  when  he  returned 


326  The  Saint 

to  God  out  of  the  fire  of  a  sinful  passion.  I 
hoped  at  that  time  that  the  Almighty  had  chosen 
him  as  the  instrument  of  some  special  work  of 
His  own.  I  hoped  that  the  holiness  of  the  work 
would  be  confirmed,  after  Maironi's  death,  by  the 
perusal  of  this  document,  which  might  come  to  be 
looked  upon  in  the  light  of  a  prophecy.  I  hoped 
this,  although  I  was  at  great  pains  to  prudently 
hide  my  secret  hopes  from  Maironi. 

"Two  years  have  elapsed  since  the  day  of  his 
disappearance,  and  nothing  has  since  been  heard 
of  him.  Monsignore,  when  you  read  these  words, 
I  also  shall  have  disappeared.  I  beg  you  to  take 
my  place  in  this  pious  stewardship.  You  will 
act  as  your  conscience  may  dictate,  as  you  may 
deem  best. 

"And  pray  for  the  soul  of 
"Your  poor 

"  DON  GIUSEPPE  FLORES." 

Benedetto  laid  the  paper  down,  and  gazed  into 
the  Pontiff's  face,  waiting. 

"  Are  you  Piero  Maironi? "  he  said. 

"  Yes,  your  Holiness." 

The  Pontiff  smiled  pleasantly. 

"  First  of  all,  I  am  glad  you  are  alive, "  he  said. 
"That  Bishop  believed  you  were  dead ;  he  opened 
the  packet,  and  deemed  it  his  duty  to  entrust  it 
to  the  Vicar  of  Christ.  This  happened  about  six 
months  ago,  while  my  saintly  predecessor  was 
still  living.  He  mentioned  it  to  several  cardinals 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    327 

and  to  me  also.  Then  it  was  discovered  that 
you  were  still  alive,  and  we  knew  where  you 
lived  and  how.  Now  I  must  ask  you  a  few 
questions,  and  I  exhort  you  to  answer  with  per- 
fect truth." 

The  Pontiff  looked  with  serious  eyes  into  Bene- 
detto's eyes;  Benedetto  bowed  his  head  slightly. 

"You  have  written  here,"  the  Pontiff  began, 
"that  when  you  were  in  that  little  church  in  the 
Veneto,  you  had  a  vision  of  yourself  in  the  Vatican, 
conversing  with  the  Pope.  What  can  you  recall 
concerning  that  part  of  your  vision?" 

"  My  vision, "  Benedetto  answered,  "  grew  more 
and  more  indistinct  in  my  memory  during  the 
time  I  spent  at  Santa  Scolastica — about  three 
years — partly  because  my  spiritual  director  there, 
as  well  as  poor  Don  Giuseppe  Flores,  always 
counselled  me  not  to  dwell  upon  it.  Certain 
parts  remained  clear  to  me,  others  became 
indistinct.  The  fact  that  I  had  seen  myself  in 
the  Vatican,  face  to  face  with  the  Sovereign 
Pontiff,  remained  fixed  in  my  mind;  but  only 
the  bare  fact.  A  few  moments  ago,  however, 
there  in  the  dark  gallery  from  whence  I  entered 
this  room,  I  suddenly  remembered  that  in  the 
vision  I  was  guided  to  the  Pontiff  by  a  spirit. 
I  recalled  this  when  I  found  myself  alone  in  the 
night,  in  the  darkness,  in  a  place  unknown  to 
me,  or  practically  unknown,  for  I  had  been  there 
only  once,  many  years  before,  when,  having  no 
idea  what  direction  to  take,  I  was  about  to  retrace 


328  The  Saint 

my  steps,  and  an  inward  voice,  very  clear,  very 
loud,  commanded  me  to  press  forward." 

"  And  when  you  knocked  at  the  door, "  the  Pope 
inquired,  "did  you  know  you  would  find  me  here? 
Did  you  know  you  were  knocking  at  the  door  of 
the  library?" 

"  No,  Your  Holiness.  I  did  not  even  intend  to 
knock.  I  was  in  the  dark;  I  could  see  nothing. 
I  was  simply  touching  the  wall  with  my  hand." 

The  Pope  was  silent  for  some  time,  lost  in 
thought;  then  he  remarked  that  the  manuscript 
contained  the  words:  "At  first  a  man  dressed  in 
black  guided  me."  Benedetto  did  not  remember 
this. 

"You  know,"  the  Pope  continued,  "that 
prophecy  alone  is  not  sufficient  proof  of  saintliness. 
You  know  there  are  such  things  (such  cases  have 
been  met  with)  as  prophetic  visions  which  were 
the  work  of — well,  perhaps  not  of  malign  spirits, 
we  know  too  little  of  these  matters  to  assert  that — 
but  of  occult  powers,  of  powers  innate  in  human 
nature,  or  of  powers  superior  to  human  nature, 
but  which  most  certainly  have  nothing  to  do  with 
holiness.  Can  you  describe  to  me  the  state  of  your 
soul  when  you  had  the  vision?" 

"  I  was  feeling  most  bitter  sorrow  at  having  drawn 
away  from  God,  at  having  been  deaf  to  His  calls, 
an  infinite  gratitude  for  His  patient  kindness,  and 
an  infinite  desire  of  Christ.  In  my  mind  I  had 
just  seen,  really  seen,  shining  clear  and  white 
against  a  dark  background,  those  words  of  the 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    329 

Gospel,  which  long  ago,  in  the  time  of  goodness 
had  been  so  dear  to  me :  '  Magister  adest  et  vocat 
te.'  Don  Giuseppe  Flores  was  officiating,  and 
Mass  was  nearly  over,  when,  as  I  prayed,  my  face 
buried  in  my  hands,  the  vision  came  to  me.  It 
was  instantaneous;  like  a  flash!" 

Benedetto's  chest  heaved,  so  violent  was  this 
revulsion  of  memory. 

"It  may  have  been  a  delusion,"  he  said;  "but 
it  was  not  the  work  of  malign  spirits." 

"The  evil  spirits,"  the  Pontiff  said,  "do  some- 
times masquerade  as  angels  of  light.  Perhaps,  at 
that  time,  they  were  striving  against  the  spirit  of 
goodness  which  was  within  you.  Did  you  take 
pride  in  this  vision,  later  on?" 

Benedetto  bowed  his  head,  and  reflected  for 
some  time. 

"  Perhaps — on  one  occasion,  "  said  he,  "  for  one 
moment,  at  Santa  Scolastica,  when  my  master,  in 
the  Abbot's  name,  offered  me  the  habit  of  a  lay- 
brother,  that  habit  which  was  afterwards  taken 
from  me  at  Jenne.  Then  I  thought  for  a  moment 
that  this  unexpected  offer  confirmed  the  last  part 
of  my  vision,  and  I  felt  a  wave  of  satisfaction, 
deeming  myself  the  object  of  divine  favour. 
I  immediately  entreated  God  to  pardon  me,  as  I 
now  entreat  Your  Holiness  to  pardon  me." 

The  Pontiff  did  not  speak,  but  he  raised  his 
hand  with  wide-spread  fingers,  and  lowered  it 
again,  in  an  act  of  absolution. 

Then  he  began  to  examine  the  different  papers 


33°  The  Saint 

lying  on  the  little  table,  seeming  to  consult  more 
than  one  attentively,  as  he  turned  them  over. 
He  laid  them  down,  arranged  them  in  a  packet, 
which  he  pushed  aside,  and  once  more  broke  the 
silence : 

"My  son,"  he  said,  "I  must  ask  you  other 
questions.  You  have  mentioned  Jenne.  I  was 
not  even  aware  of  the  existence  of  this  Jenne. 
It  has  been  described  to  me.  To  tell  the  truth, 
I  cannot  understand  why  you  ever  went  to  Jenne." 

Benedetto  smiled  quietly,  but  did  not  attempt 
to  justify  himself,  not  wishing  to  interrupt  the 
Pope,  who  continued: 

"It  was  an  unfortunate  idea,  for  who  can  say 
what  is  really  going  on  at  Jenne?  Do  you  know 
there  are  those  up  there,  who  look  on  you  with 
little  favour?" 

In  reply  Benedetto  only  prayed  His  Holiness 
not  to  oblige  him  to  answer. 

"I  understand,"  the  Pope  said,  "and,  I  must 
confess,  your  prayer  is  most  Christian.  You  need 
not  speak;  but  I  cannot  hide  the  fact  that  you 
have  been  accused  of  many  things.  Are  you 
aware  of  this?" 

Benedetto  was  aware  of,  or  rather  suspected, 
one  accusation  only.  The  Pope  seemed  the  more 
embarrassed.  He  himself  was  calm. 

"You  are  accused  of  having  pretended  at  Jenne 
to  be  a  miracle-worker,  and  by  this  boasting  of 
yours,  to  have  caused  the  death  in  your  own 
house  of  an  unfortunate  man.  They  even  assert 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    331 

that  he  died  of  certain  drinks  you  gave  him. 
You  are  accused  of  having  preached  to  the  people 
more  as  a  Protestant  than  as  a  Catholic,  and 
also- 

The  Holy  Father  hesitated.  His  virginal  purity 
recoiled  from  alluding  to  certain  things. 

"  Of  having  been  over-intimate  with  the  village 
schoolmistress.  What  can  you  answer,  my  son?" 

"Holy  Father,"  Benedetto  said  calmly,  "the 
Spirit  is  answering  for  me  in  your  heart." 

The  Pontiff  fixed  his  eyes  on  him,  in  great 
astonishment;  but  he  was  not  only  astonished, 
he  was  also  much  troubled ;  for  it  was  as  if  Bene- 
detto had  read  in  his  soul.  A  slight  flush  coloured 
his  face. 

"  Explain  your  meaning, "  he  said. 

"  God  has  allowed  me  to  read  in  your  heart  that 
you  do  not  believe  any  of  these  accusations." 

At  these  words  of  Benedetto's,  the  Pope  knit 
his  brows  slightly. 

"  Now  Your  Holiness  is  thinking  that  I  arrogate 
to  myself  a  miraculous  clairvoyance.  No.  It 
is  something  which  I  see  in  your  face,  which  I 
hear  in  your  voice;  poor,  common,  man  that  I 
am!" 

"  Perhaps  you  know  who  has  recently  visited 
me?"  the  Pope  exclaimed. 

He  had  summoned  to  Rome  the  parish  priest 
of  Jenne,  and  had  questioned  him  concerning 
Benedetto.  The  priest,  finding  a  Pope  to  his 
liking,  a  Pope  who  differed  vastly  from  those 


332  The  Saint 

two  zealots  who  had  intimidated  him  at  Jenne, 
had  seized  the  opportunity  of  thus  easily  making 
his  peace  with  his  own  conscience,  and  had  shown 
his  remorse  by  praising  and  re-praising.  Benedetto 
knew  naught  of  this. 

"No,"  he  answered,  "I  do  not  know." 

The  Pontiff  was  silent ;  but  his  face,  his  hands, 
his  whole  person  betrayed  lively  anxiety.  Pre- 
sently he  leaned  back  in  his  great  chair,  let 
his  head  sink  upon  his  breast,  stretched  out  his 
arms,  and  rested  his  hands,  side  by  side,  on  the 
little  table.  He  was  reflecting. 

While  he  reflected,  sitting  motionless  there, 
his  eyes  staring  into  space,  the  flame  of  the  tiny 
petroleum  lamp  rose,  red  and  smoky,  in  the  tube. 
He  did  not  notice  it  at  once.  When  he  did,  he 
regulated  it,  and  then  broke  the  silence. 

"Do  you  believe,"  said  he,  "that  you  really 
have  a  mission?" 

Benedetto  answered  with  an  expression  of 
humble  fervour. 

"Yes,  I  do  believe  it." 

"And  why  do  you  believe  it?" 

"Holy  Father,  because  every  one  comes  into 
the  world  with  a  mission  written  in  his  nature. 
Had  I  never  had  this  vision,  or  received  other 
extraordinary  signs,  my  nature,  which  is  eminently 
religious,  would  still  have  made  religious  action 
incumbent  upon  me.  How  can  I  say  it?  But 
I  will  say  it" — here  Benedetto's  voice  trembled 
with  emotion — "as  I  have  said  it  to  no  one  else. 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World     333 

I  believe,  I  know  that  God  is  the  Father  of  us 
all;  but  I  feel  His  paternity  in  my  nature.  Mine 
is  hardly  a  sense  of  duty,  it  is  a  sense  of  sonship." 

"  And  do  you  believe  it  is  your  duty  to  exercise 
the  religious  action  here  and  now?" 

Benedetto  clasped  his  hands,  as  if  already 
imploring  attention. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "here  also,  and  now." 

When  he  had  spoken  he  fell  upon  his  knees, 
his  hands  still  clasped. 

"Rise,"  said  the  Holy  Father.  "Utter  freely 
what  the  Spirit  shall  dictate." 

Benedetto  did  not  rise. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said,  "my  message  is  to  the 
Pontiff  alone,  and  here  I  am  not  heard  by  the 
Pontiff  only." 

The  Pope  started,  and  gave  him  a  questioning 
glance,  full  of  severity. 

Benedetto,  looking  towards  a  door  behind  the 
Pope,  raised  his  eyebrows,  and  slightly  lifted 
his  chin. 

His  Holiness  seized  a  silver  bell  which  stood 
on  the  table,  commanded  Benedetto  by  a  gesture 
to  rise,  and  then  rang  the  bell.  The  same  priest 
as  before  appeared  at  the  door  of  the  Gallery. 
The  Pope  ordered  him  to  summon  Don  Teofilo 
to  the  Gallery ;  Don  Teofilo  was  the  faithful  valet 
whom  he  had  brought  with  him  from  his  arch- 
bishopric in  the  South.  Upon  his  arrival  the 
priest  himself  was  to  await  His  Holiness  in  the 
halls  of  the  Library. 


334  The  Saint 

"You  will  pass  through  this  room,  on  your 
way  back,"  he  said. 

Several  minutes  elapsed.  They  awaited  the 
priest's  return  in  silence.  The  Pontiff,  lost  in 
thought,  never  raised  his  eyes  from  the  little 
table.  Benedetto,  standing,  kept  his  eyes  closed. 
He  opened  them  when  the  priest  reappeared. 
When  he  had  passed  out  through  the  suspicious 
door,  the  Pope  made  a  sign  with  his  hand,  and 
Benedetto  spoke  in  a  low  voice.  The  Pontiff 
listened,  grasping  the  arms  of  his  chair,  his  body 
bent  forward,  his  head  bowed. 

"Holy  Father,"  Benedetto  said,  "the  Church 
is  diseased.  Four  evil  spirits  have  entered  into 
her  body,  to  wage  war  against  the  Holy  Spirit. 
One  is  the  spirit  of  falsehood.  And  the  spirit 
of  falsehood  has  transformed  itself  into  an 
angel  of  light,  and  many  shepherds,  many 
teachers  in  the  Church,  many  pious  and  virtuous 
ones  among  the  faithful,  listen  devoutly  to  this 
spirit  of  falsehood,  believing  they  are  listening 
to  an  angel.  Christ  said :  '  I  am  the  Truth. ' 
But  many  in  the  Church,  even  good  and  pious 
souls,  separate  truth  in  their  hearts,  have  no 
reverence  for  that  truth  which  they  do  not  call 
'religious,'  fear  that  truth  will  destroy  truth; 
they  oppose  God  to  God,  prefer  darkness  to  light, 
and  thus  also  do  they  train  men.  They  call 
themselves  the  faithful,  and  do  not  understand 
how  weak,  how  cowardly  is  their  faith,  how  foreign 
to  them  is  the  spirit  of  the  apostle,  which  probes 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    335 

all  things.  Worshippers  of  the  letter,  they  wish 
to  force  grown  men  to  exist  upon  a  diet  fit  for 
infants,  which  diet  grown  men  refuse.  They  do 
not  understand  that  though  God  be  infinite  and 
unchangeable,  man's  conception  of  Him  grows 
ever  grander  from  century  to  century,  and  that 
the  same  may  be  said  of  all  Divine  Truth.  They 
are  responsible  for  a  fatal  perversion  of  the  Faith 
which  corrupts  the  entire  religious  life;  for  the 
Christian,  who  by  an  effort,  has  bent  his  will 
to  accept  what  they  accept,  to  refuse  what 
they  refuse,  believes  he  has  accomplished  the 
greatest  thing  in  God's  service,  whereas  he  has 
accomplished  less  than  nothing,  and  it  remains 
for  him  to  live  his  faith  in  the  word  of  Christ, 
in  the  teachings  of  Christ;  it  remains  for  him 
to  live  the  '  fiat  voluntas  tua '  which  is  every- 
thing. Holy  Father,  to-day  few  Christians  know 
that  religion  does  not  consist  chiefly  in  the  clinging 
of  the  intellect  to  formulas  of  truth,  but  rather 
in  actions,  and  a  manner  of  life  in  conformity 
with  this  truth,  and  that  the  fulfilment  of  negative 
religious  duties,  and  the  recognition  of  obligations 
towards  the  ecclesiastical  authority,  do  not 
alone  correspond  to  true  Faith.  And  those  who 
know  this,  those  who  do  not  separate  truth  in 
their  hearts,  those  who  worship  the-  God  of  (truth, 
who  are  on  fire  with  a  fearless  faith  in  Christ,  in 
the  Church  and  in  truth — I  know  such  men, 
Holy  Father — those  are  striven  against  with 
acrimony,  are  branded  as  heretics,  are  forced  to 


336  The  Saint 

remain  silent,  and  all  this  is  the  work  of  the  spirit 
of  falsehood,  which  for  centuries  has  been  weaving, 
in  the  Church,  a  web  of  traditional  deceit,  by  means 
of  which  those  who  to-day  are  its  servants  believe 
they  are  serving  God,  as  did  those  who  first  per- 
secuted the  Christians.  Your  Holiness 

Here  Benedetto  sank  upon  one  knee.  The 
Pope  did  not  move.  His  head  seemed  to  have 
drooped  still  lower.  The  white  skull-cap  was 
almost  entirely  within  the  radius  of  the  little 
lamp. 

"I  have  read  this  very  day,  great  words  you 
spoke  to  your  former  parishioners  concerning 
the  many  revelations  of  the  God  of  truth  in 
Faith,  and  in  Science  and  also  directly  and  mys- 
teriously in  the  human  soul.  Holy  Father  the 
hearts  of  many,  of  very  many,  priests  and  laymen 
belong  to  the  Holy  Spirit ;  the  spirit  of  falsehood 
has  not  been  able  to  enter  into  them,  not  even  in 
the  garb  of  an  angel.  Speak  one  word,  Holy  Father, 
perform  one  action  which  shall  lift  up  those  hearts, 
devoted  to  the  Holy  See  of  the  Roman  Pontiff! 
Before  the  whole  Church  honour  some  of  these 
men,  some  of  these  ecclesiastics,  against  whom  the 
spirit  of  falsehood  is  striving.  Raise  some  to  the 
episcopal  chair,  some  to  the  Holy  College!  This 
also,  Holy  Father!  If  it  be  necessary,  counsel 
expounders  and  theologians  to  advance  prudently, 
for  science,  in  order  to  progress,  must  be  prudent; 
but  do  not  allow  the  Index  or  the  Holy  Office  to 
condemn,  because  they  are  bold  to  excess,  men 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    337 

who  are  an  honour  to  the  Church,  whose  minds 
are  full  of  truth,  whose  hearts  are  full  of  Christ, 
who  fight  in  defence  of  the  Catholic  faith!  And 
as  Your  Holiness  has  said  that  God  reveals  His 
truths  even  in  the  secret  souls  of  men,  do  not 
allow  external  devotions  to  multiply,  their  num- 
ber is  already  sufficient,  but  recommend  to  the 
pastors  the  practice  and  teaching  of  inward 
prayer!  " 

Benedetto  paused  a  moment,  exhausted.  The 
Pope  raised  his  head,  and  looked  at  the  kneeling 
man,  who  was  gazing  fixedly  at  him  with  sorrowful, 
luminous  eyes,  under  knitted  brows,  the  trembling 
of  his  hands  betraying  the  effort  of  the  spirit. 
The  Pope's  face  bore  traces  of  intense  emotion. 
He  wished  to  tell  Benedetto  to  rise ;  but  he  would 
not  speak,  fearing  his  very  voice  would  reveal  his 
emotion.  He  insisted  by  gestures,  and  at  last 
Benedetto  rose.  Drawing  the  chair  towards  him, 
he  rested  his  hands,  still  tightly  clasped,  on  its 
back,  and  once  more  began  to  speak. 

"  If  the  clergy  neglect  to  teach  the  people  to 
pray  inwardly — and  this  is  as  salutary  to  the  soul 
as  certain  superstitions  are  contaminating  to  it — 
it  is  the  work  of  the  second  spirit  of  evil,  disguised 
as  an  angel  of  light,  which  infests  the  Church. 
This  is  the  spirit  of  domination  of  the  clergy. 
Those  priests  who  have  the  spirit  of  domination  are 
ill-pleased  when  souls  communicate  directly  and 
in  the  natural  way  with  God,  going  to  Him  for 
counsel  and  direction.  Their  aim  is  righteous! 


The  Saint 

Thus  does  the  evil  one  deceive  their  conscience, 
which  in  its  turn  deceives ;  their  aim  is  righteous  I 
But  they  themselves  wish  to  direct  these  souls, 
in  the  character  of  mediator,  and  the  souls  grow 
weary,  timid,  servile.  Perhaps  there  are  not 
many  such ;  the  worst  crimes  of  the  spirit  of  dom- 
ination are  of  a  different  nature.  It  has  suppressed 
the  ancient  and  holy  Catholic  liberty.  It  seeks 
to  place  obedience  first  among  the  virtues,  even 
where  it  is  not  exacted  by  the  laws.  It  desires 
to  impose  submission  even  where  it  is  not  obliga- 
tory, retractions  which  offend  the  conscience; 
wherever  a  group  of  men  assemble  for  good  works, 
it  wishes  to  take  the  command,  and  if  they  decline 
to  submit  to  this  command,  all  support  is  with- 
drawn from  them.  It  even  strives  to  carry 
religious  authority  outside  the  sphere  of  religion. 
Holy  Father,  Italy  knows  this!  But  what  is 
Italy?  It  is  not  for  her  that  I  speak,  but  for  the 
whole  Catholic  world.  Holy  Father,  you  may 
not  yet  have  experienced  it,  but  this  spirit  of 
domination  will  strive  to  exert  its  influence  over 
you,  yourself.  Do  not  yield,  Holy  Father!  You 
are  the  Governor  of  the  Church;  do  not  allow 
others  to  govern  you ;  do  not  allow  your  power  to 
become  as  a  glove  for  the  invisible  hands  of  others. 
Have  public  counsellors;  let  the  bishops  be 
summoned  often  to  national  councils;  let  the 
people  take  part  in  the  elections  of  bishops, 
choosing  men  who  are  beloved  and  respected  by 
the  people;  and  let  the  bishops  mingle  with  the 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    339 

masses,  not  only  to  pass  under  triumphal  arches, 
to  be  saluted  by  clanging  bells,  but  to  become 
acquainted  with  the  masses,  to  encourage  them 
in  the  imitation  of  Christ.  Let  them  do  these 
things  rather  than  shut  themselves  up  in  the 
episcopal  palaces,  like  princes  of  the  Orient,  as  so 
many  now  do.  And  give  them  all  the  authority 
which  is  compatible  with  that  of  Peter. 

"  May  I  continue,  Your  Holiness?" 

The  Pope,  who  while  Benedetto  had  been 
speaking  had  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  his  face,  now 
bowed  his  head  slightly,  in  answer. 

"The  third  evil  spirit  which  is  corrupting  the 
Church  does  not  disguise  itself  as  an  angel  of  light, 
for  it  well  knows  it  cannot  deceive;  it  is  satisfied 
with  the  garb  of  common,  human  honesty.  This 
is  the  spirit  of  avarice.  The  Vicar  of  Christ  dwells 
in  this  royal  palace  as  he  dwelt  in  his  episcopal 
palace,  with  the  pure  heart  of  poverty.  Many 
venerable  pastors  dwell  in  the  Church  with  the 
same  heart,  but  the  spirit  of  poverty  is  not 
preached  sufficiently,  not  preached  as  Christ 
preached  it.  The  lips  of  Christ's  ministers  are 
too  often  over-complaisant  to  those  who  seek 
riches.  There  are  those  among  them  who  bow 
the  head  respectfully  before  the  man  who  has 
much,  simply  because  he  has  much;  there  are 
those  who  let  their  tongues  flatter  the  greedy,  and 
too  many  preachers  of  the  word  and  of  the  example 
of  Christ  deem  it  just  for  them  to  revel  in  the 
pomp  and  honours  attending  on  riches,  to  cleave 


340  The  Saint 

with  their  souls  to  the  luxury  riches  bring.  Father, 
exhort  the  clergy  to  show  those  greedy  for  gain, 
be  they  rich  or  poor,  more  of  that  charity  which 
admonishes,  which  threatens,  which  rebukes. 
Holy  Father! " 

Benedetto  ceased  speaking.  There  was  an 
expression  of  fervent  appeal  in  the  gaze  fixed  upon 
the  Pope. 

"Well? "  the  Pontiff  murmured. 

Benedetto  spread  wide  his  arms,  ana  continued : 

"The  Spirit  urges  me  to  say  more.  It  is  not 
the  work  of  a  day,  but  let  us  prepare  for  the  day — 
not  leaving  this  task  to  the  enemies  of  God  and  of 
the  Church — let  us  prepare  for  the  day  on  which 
the  priests  of  Christ  shall  set  the  example  of  true 
poverty;  when  it  shall  be  their  duty  to  live  in 
poverty,  as  it  is  their  duty  to  live  in  chastity;  and 
let  the  words  of  Christ  to  the  Seventy-two  serve 
them  as  a  guide  in  this.  Then  the  Lord  will 
surround  the  least  of  them  with  such  honours, 
with  such  reverence  as  does  not  to-day  exist  in 
the  hearts  of  the  people  for  the  princes  of  the 
Church.  They  will  be  few  in  number,  but  they 
will  be  the  light  of  the  world.  Holy  Father,  are 
they  that  to-day?  Some  among  them  are,  but 
the  majority  shed  neither  light  nor  darkness." 

At  this  point  the  Pontiff  for  the  first  time 
bowed  his  head  in  sorrowful  acquiescence. 

"The  fourth  spirit  of  evil,"  Benedetto  con- 
tinued "is  the  spirit  of  immobility.  This  is 
disguised  as  an  angel  of  light.  Catholics,  both 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    341 

ecclesiastics  and  laymen,  who  are  dominated  by 
the  spirit  of  immobility  believe  they  are  pleasing 
God,  as  did  those  zealous  Jews  who  caused  Christ 
to  be  crucified.  All  the  clericals,  Your  Holiness, 
all  the  religious  men  even,  who  to-day  oppose 
progressive  Catholicism,  would,  in  all  good  faith, 
have  caused  Christ  to  be  crucified  in  Moses'  name. 
They  are  worshippers  of  the  past;  they  wish 
everything  to  remain  unalterable  in  the  Church, 
even  to  the  style  of  the  pontifical  language,  even 
to  the  great  fans  of  peacocks'  feathers  which 
offend  Your  Holiness'  priestly  heart,  even  to 
those  senseless  traditions  which  forbid  a  cardinal 
to  go  out  on  foot,  and  make  it  scandalous  for  him 
to  visit  the  poor  in  their  houses.  It  is  the  spirit 
of  immobility  which,  by  straining  to  preserve 
what  it  is  impossible  to  preserve,  exposes  us  to  the 
derision  of  unbelievers ;  and  this  is  a  great  sin  in 
the  eyes  of  God." 

The  oil  in  the  lamp  was  almost  exhausted,  the 
ring  of  shadows  was  closing  in,  was  growing  deeper 
around  and  above  the  small  circle  of  light  in  which 
the  two  figures  were  outlined,  confronting  each 
other:  the  white  figure  of  the  Pontiff  in  his  chair, 
and  Benedetto's  dark  figure  standing  erect. 

"In  opposition  to  this  spirit  of  immobility," 
said  Benedetto,  "  I  entreat  you  not  to  allow 
Giovanni  Selva's  books  to  be  placed  on  the 
Index." 

Then,  pushing  the  chair  aside,  he  once  more  fell 
upon  his  knees,  and  stretching  out  his  hands 


342  The  Saint 

towards  the  Pontiff,  spoke  more  eagerly,  more 
excitedly. 

"Vicar  of  Christ,  I  ask  for  something  else.  I 
am  a  sinner,  unworthy  to  be  compared  to  the 
saints,  but  the  Spirit  of  God  may  speak  even 
through  the  vilest  mouth.  As  a  woman  once 
conjured  the  Pope  to  come  to  Rome,  so  I  now 
conjure  Your  Holiness  to  come  forth  from  the 
Vatican.  Come  forth,  Holy  Father;  but  the 
first  time,  at  least  the  first  time,  come  forth  on 
an  errand  connected  with  your  office.  Lazarus 
suffers  and  dies  day  by  day ;  go  and  visit  Lazarus ! 
Christ  calls  out  for  succour  in  all  poor,  suffering 
human  beings.  From  the  Gallery  of  Inscriptions 
I  saw  the  lights  shining  before  another  palace 
here  in  Rome.  If  human  suffering  call  out  in  the 
name  of  Christ,  there  they  may  perhaps  answer: 
'nay,'  but  they  go.  From  the  Vatican  the 
answer  to  Christ  is :  '  yea, '  but  they  do  not  go. 
What  will  Christ  say  at  the  terrible  hour,  Holy 
Father?  These  words  of  mine,  could  the  world 
hear  them,  would  bring  vituperation  upon  me, 
from  those  who  profess  the  greatest  devotion  to 
the  Vatican;  but  though  they  hurl  vituperation 
and  thunderbolts  against  me,  not  until  the  hour  of 
my  death  will  I  cease  crying  aloud:  What 
will  Christ  say?  What  will  Christ  say?  To  Him 
I  appeal!  " 

The  lamp's  tiny  flame  grew  smaller  and  smaller; 
in  the  narrow  circle  of  pale  light  upon  which  the 
shadows  were  creeping  little  of  Benedetto  was 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World     343 

visible  save  his  outstretched  hands,  little  of  the 
Pope  was  visible  save  his-  right  hand  grasping 
the  silver  bell.  As  soon  as  Benedetto  ceased,  the 
Holy  Father  ordered  him  to  rise;  then  he  rang 
the  bell  twice.  The  door  of  the  Gallery  was 
thrown  open;  the  trusted  valet  entered  who  had 
already  become  popular  in  the  Vatican,  and  was 
known  as  Don  Teofilo. 

"Teofilo,"  said  the  Pope,  "is  the  light  turned 
on  once  more  in  the  Gallery?" 

"Yes,  Your  Holiness." 

"Then  go  into  the  library,  where  you  will  find 
Monsignore.  Request  him  to  come  in  here,  and 
wait  for  me.  And  see  that  another  lamp  is 
brought." 

When  he  had  finished  speaking,  His  Holiness 
rose.  He  moved  towards  the  door  of  the  Gallery, 
signing  to  Benedetto  to  follow  him.  Don  Teofilo 
passed  out  by  the  opposite  door.  Sad  omen!  In 
the  dark  room,  where  so  many  flaming  words, 
inspired  by  the  Spirit,  had  flashed,  only  the  little 
dying  lamp  remained. 

That  part  of  the  Gallery  of  Inscriptions  where 
the  Pope  and  Benedetto  now  found  themselves 
was  in  semi -darkness.  But  at  one  end  a  great 
lamp,  with  a  reflector,  shed  its  light  upon  the 
commemorative  inscription  on  the  right  of  the 
door  leading  to  the  Loggia  of  Giovanni  da  Udine. 
Between  the  long  lines  of  inscriptions,  which  ran 
from  one  end  of  the  gallery  to  the  other,  and 


344  The  Saint 

watched  this  dark  conflict  of  two  living  souls,  like 
dumb  witnesses  well  acquainted  with  the  mysteries 
of  that  which  is  beyond  the  grave  and  of  the  last 
judgment,  the  Pope  advanced  slowly,  silently,  Bene- 
detto following  on  his  left,  but  a  few  paces  behind 
him.  He  paused  a  moment  near  the  torso  represent- 
ing the  river  Orontes,  and  gazed  out  of  the  win- 
dow. Benedetto  wondered  if  he  were  looking  at  the 
lights  of  the  Quirinal,  and  his  heart  beat  faster 
as  he  waited  for  a  word.  The  word  did  not  come. 
The  Pope  continued  his  slow,  silent  walk,  his 
hands  clasped  behind  his  back  and  his  chin  resting 
on  his  breast.  He  paused  again  near  the  end 
of  the  gallery,  in  the  light  of  the  great  lamp,  and 
seemed  undecided  whether  to  turn  back  or  to 
proceed.  On  the  left  of  the  lamp  the  door  of  the 
gallery  opened  upon  a  background  of  night,  of 
moonlight,  columns,  glass,  and  marble  pavement. 
The  Pope  turned  in  this  direction,  and  descended 
the  five  steps.  The  moonlight  fell  slanting  upon 
the  pavement,  streaked  with  the  black  shadows 
of  the  columns,  and  upon  the  end  of  the  Loggia, 
cut  off  by  the  oblique  profile  of  the  deeper  shadow, 
within  which  the  bust  of  Giovanni  was  barely 
distinguishable. 

The  Pope  walked  on  till  he  reached  this  shadow 
and  paused  in  it,  while  Benedetto,  who  had 
stopped  several  paces  behind  that  he  might  not 
seem  to  press  him  irreverently  in  his  anxiety  for 
an  answer,  was  gazing  at  the  moon,  sailing  midst 
the  great  clouds  above  Rome.  As  he  gazed  thus 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World     345 

at  the  orb  he  asked  himself,  asked  some  Invisible 
One  who  might  be  near  him,  asked  even  the  grave, 
sad  face  of  the  moon  herself,  whether  he  had  dared 
too  much,  dared  in  the  wrong  way.  But  he 
repented  of  this  doubt  immediately.  Was  it  he 
himself  who  had  spoken?  No,  the  words  had 
come  unsought  to  his  lips,  the  Spirit  had  spoken. 
He  closed  his  eyes  in  an  effort  of  silent  prayer, 
his  face  still  raised  towards  the  moon,  as  a  blind 
man  lifts  his  sightless  eyes  towards  the  silver 
splendour  he  divines. 

A  hand  touched  him  gently  on  the  shoulder. 
He  started  and  opened  his  eyes.  It  was  the  Pope, 
and  the  expression  of  his  face  told  him  that  at 
last  words  had  matured  in  his  mind  which  satisfied 
it.  Benedetto  bent  his  head  respectfully,  ready 
to  listen. 

"  My  son,  "  His  Holiness  began,  "many  of  these 
things  the  Lord  had  spoken  of  in  my  heart  long 
ago.  You — God  bless  you — have  to  deal  with 
the  Lord  alone;  I  have  to  deal  also  with  the  men 
the  Lord  has  placed  around  me,  among  whom  I 
have  to  steer  my  course  according  to  charity 
and  prudence,  and  above  all,  I  must  adapt  my 
counsels,  my  commands,  to  the  different  capacities, 
the  different  states  of  mind,  of  so  many  millions 
of  men.  I  am  like  a  poor  schoolmaster  who, 
out  of  seventy  scholars,  has  twenty  who  are  below 
the  average,  forty  of  ordinary  ability,  and  only 
ten  who  are  really  brilliant.  He  cannot  carry  on 
the  school  for  the  benefit  of  the  ten  brilliant  pupils 


346  The  Saint 

alone,  and  I  cannot  govern  the  Church  for  you 
alone  and  for  those  who  are  like  you.  Consider 
this  for  instance.  Christ  paid  tribute  to  the  State, 
and  I — not  as  the  Pontiff,  but  as  a  citizen — would 
glacly  pay  my  tribute  of  homage,  there  in  that 
palace  whose  lights  you  saw  shining,  did  I  not 
fear  by  so  doing  to  offend  the  sixty  scholars,  to 
lose  even  one  of  those  souls  which  are  as  precious 
to  me  as  the  others.  And  it  would  be  the  same 
if  I  caused  certain  books  to  be  removed  from  the 
Index,  if  I  called  to  the  Sacred  College  certain 
men  who  have  the  reputation  of  not  being  strictly 
orthodox,  if,  during  an  epidemic,  I  should  go — 
ex  abrupto — to  visit  the  hospitals  of  Rome." 

"Oh,  Your  Holiness!"  Benedetto  exclaimed, 
"forgive  me,  but  it  is  not  certain  that  those  souls, 
so  ready  to  be  scandalised  by  the  Vicar  of  Christ  for 
such  causes  as  these,  will  be  saved  at  last,  whereas 
it  is  certain  that  very  many  other  souls  would 
be  secured  which  otherwise  cannot  be  won  over." 

"And  then,"  the  Pope  continued,  as  if  he  had 
not  heard  him,  "I  am  old;  I  am  weary;  the 
cardinals  do  not  know  whom  they  have  placed 
here.  I  did  not  wish  it.  I  am  ill  also,  and  I 
know  by  certain  signs  that  I  must  soon  appear 
before  my  Judge.  I  feel,  my  son,  that  you  are 
moved  by  the  right  spirit;  but  the  Lord  cannot 
exact  of  a  poor  old  man  like  me  the  things  you 
have  spoken  of,  things  which  even  a  young  and 
vigorous  Pontiff  could  not  accomplish!  Still, 
there  are  some  which  even  I,  with  His  help,  may 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    347 

be  able  to  bring  about;  if  not  the  great  things,  at 
least  the  lesser  ones.  Let  us  pray  God  to  raise 
up  at  the  right  moment  one  capable  of  dealing 
with  the  weightier  matters,  and  those  who  may 
be  able  to  help  him  in  the  work.  My  son,  if  I 
were  to  begin  to-night  to  transform  and  rebuild 
the  Vatican,  where  should  I  find  a  Raphael  to 
adorn  it  with  his  paintings?  or  even  a  Giovanni? 
Still,  I  do  not  say  I  can  do  nothing." 

Benedetto  was  about  to  reply,  but  the  Pontiff, 
perhaps  not  wishing  to  give  any  further  explana- 
tions, afforded  him  neither  time  nor  opportunity 
to  do  so,  and  at  once  asked  him  a  very  welcome 
question. 

"You  know  Selva?"  said  he.  "What  manner 
of  man  is  he  in  private  life?" 

"He  is  a  just  man!"  Benedetto  hastened  to 
answer.  "  A  most  just  man.  His  books  have  been 
denounced  to  the  Congregation  of  the  Index. 
They  may,  perhaps,  contain  some  bold  opinions, 
but  there  is  no  comparison  between  the  deep, 
burning  piety  of  Selva 's  works  and  the  cold  and 
meagre  formalism  of  certain  other  books,  which 
are  more  often  found  in  the  hands  of  the  clergy 
than  the  Gospels  themselves.  Holy  Father,  the 
condemnation  of  Selva  would  be  a  blow  directed 
against  the  most  active  and  vital  energies  of 
Catholicism.  The  Church  tolerates  thousands 
of  stupid,  ascetic  books  which  unworthily  diminish 
the  idea  of  God  in  the  human  mind;  let  her  not 
condemn  those  which  magnify  it!  " 


348  The  Saint 

The  hour  struck  in  the  distance;  half-past  nine. 
Silently  His  Holiness  took  Benedetto's  hand,  held 
it  between  his  own,  and  communicated  to  him 
through  that  mute  pressure  an  understanding  and 
approval  which  his  prudent  lips  might  not  utter. 

He  pressed  the  hand,  shook  it,  caressed  it,  and 
pressed  it  again.  At  last  he  said,  in  a  stifled  voice : 

"  Pray  for  me,  pray  that  the  Lord  may  enlighten 
me!" 

A  tear  trembled  in  each  of  the  beautiful,  gentle 
eyes  of  the  old  man,  who  had  never  wilfully  soiled 
himself  with  an  impure  thought,  who  was  full  of 
the  sweetness  of  charity.  Benedetto  was  so 
deeply  moved  that  he  could  not  speak. 

"  Come  again, "  the  Pope  said.  "  We  must  con- 
verse together  again." 

"When,  Your  Holiness?  " 

"Soon.     I  will  summon  you." 

Meanwhile  the  advancing  shadows  had  engulfed 
the  white  figure  and  the  black  one.  His  Holiness 
placed  his  hand  on  Benedetto's  shoulder  and 
asked  him  softly,  almost  hesitatingly: 

"  Do  you  remember  the  end  of  your  vision?" 

Benedetto,  bowing  his  head,  answered,  also  in 
a  low  tone: 

"Nescio  diem  neque  horam." 

"The  words  are  not  in  the  manuscript,"  His 
Holiness  continued;  "but  do  you  remember?  " 

Benedetto  murmured: 

"In  the  Benedictine  habit,  on  the  bare  earth, 
in  the  shade  of  a  tree." 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    349 

"Should  it  happen  thus,"  the  Holy  Father  said 
gently,  "  I  would  wish  to  bless  you  in  that  moment. 
Then  I  shall  be  awaiting  you  in  Heaven." 

Benedetto  knelt  down.  The  Pope's  voice 
sounded  very  solemn  in  the  darkness : 

"  Benedico  te  in  nomine  Patris  et  Filii  et  Spiritus 
Sancti." 

The  Pontiff  rapidly  ascended  the  five  steps,  and 
disappeared. 

Benedetto  remained  upon  his  knees,  wrapt  in 
that  benediction  which,  it  seemed  to  him,  had 
come  from  Christ  Himself.  On  hearing  steps 
in  the  gallery  he  rose.  A  few  moments  later  he 
was  returning  to  the  bronze  portal,  accompanied 
by  Don  Teofilo. 


Ill 


The  room  on  the  fourth  floor  was  hardly  decent. 
An  iron  bedstead,  a  pedestal,  a  writing-desk,  with 
a  few  torn  and  dilapidated  books,  a  deal  chest  of 
drawers,  an  iron  washstand,  and  a  few  straw- 
bottomed  chairs,  were  all  it  contained.  A  suit 
of  grey  clothes  was  hanging  from  one  nail,  a  broad- 
brimmed  black  hat  from  another.  Frequent 
flashes  of  lightning  could  be  seen  through  the  open 
window;  breaths  of  the  dark,  stormy  night  blew 
in,  causing  the  flame  of  the  petroleum  lamp  on  the 
pedestal  to  flare  and  the  light  and  the  shadows  to 
tremble,  as  they  fell  upon  the  not  too  clean  sheets, 
the  two  fleshless  hands,  the  cluster  of  roses  lying 


350  The  Saint 

loose  between  them,  on  the  flannel  shirt  of  the 
sick  man,  who  had  pulled  himself  up  into  a  sitting 
position,  and  on  his  deeply  lined,  thin  face,  greyish 
with  a  month-old  beard.  On  the  other  side  of 
the  poor  bed  in  the  gloaming  stood  Benedetto. 
The  sick  man  gazed  at  the  flowers  in  silence. 
His  hands  and  his  lips  trembled. 

He  had  been  a  monk.  At  thirty  he  had  thrown 
off  the  cowl  and  married.  A  man  of  little  culture, 
of  few  talents,  he  had  managed  to  make  a  poor 
living  for  his  wife  and  two  daughters,  working  as  a 
copyist.  The  wife  was  dead,  the  daughters  had 
been  led  astray,  and  now  he  himself  was  dying 
slowly,  there  in  that  fourth-floor  room,  in  Via 
della  Marmorata,  near  the  corner  of  Via  Manuzio, 
wasted  by  misery,  by  disease,  by  the  bitterness 
of  his  soul. 

A  sob  he  could  not  check  broke  from  his  lips. 
He  opened  his  arms,  encircled  Benedetto's  neck, 
and  drew  his  head  towards  him  in  an  embrace. 
Then,  suddenly,  he  pushed  him  away,  and  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands. 

"  I  am  not  worthy!     I  am  not  worthy ! "  said  he. 

But  now  Benedetto  in  his  turn  encircled  the 
man's  neck,  kissed  him,  and  answered: 

"  Nor  am  I  worthy  of  this  blessing  the  Lord  has 
sent  me! " 

"  What  blessing?  "  the  sufferer  inquired. 

"That  you  weep  with  me!  " 

Having  spoken  these  words,  Benedetto  drew 
away  from  the  embrace,  but  his  gaze  lingered 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    351 

affectionately  on  the  old  man,  who  stared  at  him 
in  astonishment  as  if  asking  the  question:  "You 
know  all?"  Benedetto  silently  and  gently  bowed 
his  head  in  assent. 

The  man  had  no  suspicion  that  the  story  of  his 
past  life  was  known.  He  had  lived  here  three 
years.  A  neighbour,  older  than  he,  a  poor  little 
hunchbacked  woman,  very  charitable  and  pious, 
rendered  him  many  services,  tended  him  in  illness, 
and  managed  to  assist  him  out  of  the  pension  of 
two  lire  a  day  which  was  all  she  possessed.  She 
had  learned  from  the  concierge  that  the  man  was 
an  unfrocked  monk,  and  seeing  how  sad,  humble, 
and  grateful  he  was,  she  prayed  night  and  morning 
to  the  Madonna  and  to  all  the  Saints  of  Paradise, 
that  they  might  intercede  with  Jesus  on  his  behalf, 
that  this  man  might  be  pardoned  and  brought  back 
into  the  fold  of  the  Church.  She  told  her  hopes 
and  her  fears  to  other  pious  old  women,  saying: 

"  I  myself  do  not  dare  to  pray  to  Jesus  for  him; 
that  unhappy  man  has  committed  too  great  a  sin 
against  Him.  He  needs  the  prayers  of  some 
powerful  personage!  " 

That  day  the  old  man  had  said  to  her  several 
times  that  he  would  be  so  happy  if  he  could  have  a 
few  roses.  Then  the  little  hunchback  had  thought: 

"  There  is  the  holy  man  of  whom  every  one  is 
talking, — he  works  as  a  gardener.  I  will  go  to  him 
and  tell  him  the  whole  story.  I  will  ask  him  to 
bring  some  roses,  and  who  knows  what  may  come 
of  it! " 


35 2  The  Saint 

Such  were  her  thoughts,  but  at  once  she  said 
to  herself: 

"  If  that  thought  did  not  come  to  me  from  the 
Madonna,  it  certainly  came  from  St.  Anthony!  " 

In  her  simple,  pure  heart  she  had  felt  a  wave 
of  sweetness  and  joy.  Without  losing  any  time 
she  had  started  for  Villa  May  da,  the  elegant 
Pompeian  villa,  standing  out  white  on  the  Av- 
entine,  among  the  beautiful  palms,  almost  op- 
posite the  window  of  the  old  unfrocked  monk. 
Benedetto  was  about  to  go  to  bed,  in  obedience 
to  the  orders  of  the  Professor,  who  had  found  him 
feverish.  It  was  the  low,  insidious  fever  which, 
for  several  weeks,  had  been  consuming  his  strength 
without  otherwise  causing  any  suffering.  When 
he  had  heard  what  the  cripple  had  to  tell,  he  had 
come  at  once  with  the  roses. 

The  old  man  still  kept  his  face  hidden,  for  he 
was  ashamed.  Presently,  without  looking  at  Ben- 
edetto, he  spoke  of  the  roses,  and  explained  his 
longing  for  them.  He  was  the  son  of  a  gardener 
and  had  himself  intended  to  become  a  gardener; 
but  he  was  also  fond  of  going  to  church,  and  all 
his  toys  had  been  copies  of  sacred  objects:  little 
altars,  candelabra,  small  busts  of  bishops  wearing 
mitres.  His  employers — very  religious  people — 
had  intimated  to  his  parents  that,  if  he  showed  a 
vocation  for  the  ecclesiastical  career,  they  would 
have  him  educated  at  their  own  expense.  There- 
upon his  parents  had  promptly  determined  that 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    353 

he  should  adopt  that  career.  He  soon  discovered 
that  his  strength  was  not  sufficient  to  enable  him 
to  remain  faithful  to  the  priestly  vows,  but  he 
lacked  the  courage  to  take  a  step  which  would 
have  caused  his  family  the  greatest  distress. 
Instead  of  that  he  imagined  he  might  be  safe  if 
he  withdrew  completely  from  the  world,  and  so, 
listening  to  imprudent  counsellors,  he  entered 
the  monastery  from  which  he  was  to  come  forth 
again  later  in  disgrace.  In  after  years  he  would 
sometimes  allude  to  his  order,  when  jesting 
covertly  with  his  friends,  and  say  "  When  I  was 
in  the  regiment!  "  but  he  did  not  repeat  that 
now.  As  a  boy  he  had  loved  flowers,  but,  after 
entering  the  seminary,  he  had  thought  no  more 
about  them — thought  no  more  about  them  for 
forty  years.  The  night  before  Benedetto's  visit 
he  had  dreamed  of  the  big  rose  garden  in  which 
his  childhood  had  been  spent.  The  white  roses 
were  all  bending  towards  him,  and  gazing  at  him 
in  the  dream-world,  as  pious  souls  gaze  with 
curiosity  on  a  pilgrim  in  the  world  of  shadows. 
They  said  to  him :  "  Where  are  you  going?  where 
are  you  going,  poor  friend?  Why  do  you  not 
return  to  us?"  On  waking  he  had  felt  a  longing 
for  roses,  a  tender  longing  that  moved  him  to 
tears.  And  how  many  roses  now  lay  on  his  bed, 
all  through  the  kindness  of  a  saintly  person,  how 
many  beautiful,  sweet-smelling  roses!  He  was 
silent,  gazing  fixedly  at  Benedetto,  his  lips  parted, 
his  eyes  shining  with  a  painful  question:  "You 


354  The  Saint 

know,  you  understand,  what  do  you  think  of  me? 
Do  you  believe  there  is  hope  of  pardon  for  me?" 

Benedetto,  bending  over  the  sick  man,  began  to 
talk  to  him  and  caress  him.  The  stream  of  gentle 
words  flowed  on  and  on  in  a  varying  tone,  some- 
times of  joy,  sometimes  of  pain.  Now  the  old  man 
seemed  comforted,  now  anxious  questions  broke 
from  his  lips;  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  the  gentle 
stream  of  words  restored  the  happy  look  to  his 
face.  Meanwhile,  the  little  crippled  woman  came 
and  went  between  her  own  room  and  her  neigh- 
bour's door,  clasping  her  rosary,  and  divided 
between  her  anxiety  at  that  decisive  moment  to 
get  in  as  many  Ave  Marias  as  possible,  and  the 
desire  to  hear  if  they  were  talking  in  there  and 
what  they  were  saying. 

But  down  below,  in  the  street,  a  crowd  had 
begun  to  gather  of  people  who,  regardless  of  the 
bad  weather,  were  anxious  to  see  the  Saint  of 
Jenne.  A  woman  who  kept  a  little  shop  had  seen 
him  enter  with  his  roses,  accompanied  by  the  little 
hunchback.  In  an  instant  about  fifty  persons 
were  standing  around  the  door,  women  for  the 
most  part,  some  wishing  only  to  see  him,  others 
eager  for  a  word  from  him.  They  waited  patiently, 
speaking  in  low  tones  as  if  they  had  been  in  church ; 
speaking  of  Benedetto,  of  the  miracles  he  per- 
formed, of  the  blessings  they  were  going  to  implore 
him  to  grant.  A  cyclist  rode  up,  got  off  his 
machine,  and,  having  inquired  why  these  people 
were  assembled  there,  made  them  tell  him  exactly 


In- the  Whirlpool  of  the  World     355 

where  the  Saint  of  Jenne  was.  Then  he  mounted 
his  bicycle  once  more  and  started  off  at  full  speed. 
Shortly  afterwards  a  close  carriage — a  so-called 
"botte" — followed  by  the  same  cyclist,  stopped 
before  the  door.  A  gentleman  got  out,  pushed 
his  way  through  the  crowd,  and  entered  the  house. 
The  cyclist  remained  near  the  carriage.  The 
gentleman  exchanged  a  few  words  with  the 
concierge,  whom  he  desired  to  accompany  him 
aa  far  as  the  door,  where  the  little  hunchback 
stood,  trembling,  and  clasping  her  rosary.  He 
knocked,  regardless  of  her  silent  gesticulations, 
as  she  implored  the  Madonna  to  send  this  intrudef 
away.  It  was  Benedetto  who  came  to  open  the  door. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  "  said  the  stranger,  politely, 
"are  you  Signor  Maironi?" 

"I  no  longer  bear  that  name,"  Benedetto 
replied,  quietly,  "but  I  once  bore  it." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  trouble  you.  I  should  be 
greatly  obliged  if  you  would  kindly  come  with  me. 
I  will  tell  you  where  presently." 

The  sick  man  heard  the  stranger's  words,  and 
groaned : 

"  No,  holy  man,  for  the  love  of  God,  do  not  go 
away! " 

Benedetto  replied : 

"  Please  tell  me  your  name,  and  why  you  wisn 
me  to  go  with  you." 

The  other  seemed  embarrassed. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "I  am  a  delegate,  an  officer 
of  the  police." 


356  The  Saint 

The  invalid  exclaimed  "  Gesummariaf "  while 
the  terrified  hunchback  dropped  her  rosary  and 
stared  at  Benedetto,  who  had  not  been  able  to 
check  a  movement  of  surprise. 

The  police  officer  hastened  to  add,  smiling, 
that  his  visit  was  not  of  a  terrible  nature,  that  he 
was  not  come  to  arrest  any  one,  that  he  was  not 
giving  an  order,  but  simply  an  invitation. 

The  invitations  of  the  police  being  of  a  special 
nature,  Benedetto  did  not  think  of  refusing  this 
one.  He  asked  to  be  allowed  to  remain  alone 
with  the  sick  man  and  the  woman  for  five  minutes, 
whispered  something  to  the  man,  who  appeared 
to  consent  with  tears  in  his  voice,  and  then  taking 
the  little  hunchback  aside,  he  told  her  the  invalid 
was  now  willing  to  see  a  priest,  but  that  he  could 
not  tell  when  he  himself  would  be  free  to  bring 
one  to  him.  The  poor  little  creature  was  trembling 
from  head  to  foot,  partly  with  fear,  partly  with 
joy,  and  she  could  only  repeat  over  and  over 
again:  "Blessed  Jesus!  Holy  Virgin!"  Ben- 
edetto sought  to  reassure  her,  promised  to  return 
as  soon  as  possible,  and,  having  said  good-byt, 
went  down-stairs  with  the  delegate. 

In  the  street  the  crowd  had  increased  in  size, 
and  the  people  were  pressing  noisily  and  threaten- 
ingly round  the  cyclist,  who  had  remained  near 
the  carriage,  and  in  whom  they  had  recognised 
a  policeman  in  plain  clothes.  He  would  not  tell 
them  why  he  had  come  first  to  gather  information, 
and  had  then  returned  with  the  other  individual. 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World     357 

They  tried  to  force  the  cabman  to  drive  away, 
and  even  talked  of  unharnessing  the  horse. 
When  the  delegate  appeared  with  Benedetto 
they  surrounded  him,  crying:  "Away  with  the 
ruffian! — Away  with  him! — Down  with  him! — 
Leave  that  man  alone! — Look  out  for  the  thieves, 
per  Dio!  You  take  God's  servants,  and  let  the 
thieves  run  free! — Away  with  you! — Down  with 
you!"  Benedetto  came  forward,  motioned  to 
them  with  both  hands  to  be  quiet,  and  begged 
them  over  and  over  again  to  go  away  peacefully, 
for  no  one  wished  to  hurt  him;  he  had  not  been 
arrested,  but  was  going  with  this  gentleman  of  his 
own  free-will.  At  the  same  moment  thunder 
pealed  in  the  sky,  a  heavy  shower  began  to  beat 
on  the  pavement.  The  crowd  swayed,  and 
rapidly  dispersed.  The  delegate  gave  an  order 
to  the  cyclist,  and  entered  the  carriage  with 
Benedetto. 

They  started  in  the  direction  of  the  Tiber,  in 
the  midst  of  thunder,  lightning,  and  heavy  rain. 
Very  quietly  Benedetto  asked  the  delegate  what 
was  wanted  of  him  at  the  police  station.  He 
replied  that  it  was  not  a  question  of  the  station. 
The  person  who  wished  to  speak  with  Signer 
Maironi  was  a  far  more  important  functionary 
than  the  chief  of  police. 

"Perhaps  I  should  not  have  told  you  that,"  he 
added,  "but  at  any  rate  he  himself  will  tell  you 
so." 

Then  he  informed  Benedetto  that  he  had  sought 


358  The  Saint 

for  him  in  vain  at  Villa  Mayda,  and  said  how 
vexed  he  would  have  been  not  to  have  found  him 
soon.  Benedetto  ventured  to  inquire  if  he  knew 
the  reason  of  this  call.  In  reality  the  delegate  did 
not  know,  but  he  feigned  a  diplomatic  silence, 
and  drew  back  into  his  corner  as  if  to  avoid  the 
gusts  of  rain.  A  street  lamp  showed  Benedetto 
the  yellow  river,  the  great  black  barges  of  Ripa- 
grande;  another  showed  him  the  temple  of  Vesta. 
Beyond  that  he  could  no  longer  see  where  they 
were  going;  it  seemed  as  if  they  were  passing 
through  an  unknown  necropolis;  a  maze  of 
funereal  streets,  where  sepulchral  lamps  were 
burning.  At  last  the  carriage  rattled  into  a 
courtyard,  and  drew  up  at  the  foot  of  a  broad 
and  dark  stairway,  flanked  with  columns.  Ben- 
edetto went  up  with  the  delegate  as  far  as 
the  second  landing,  on  to  which  two  doors 
opened.  The  one  on  the  left  was  closed,  the  one 
on  the  right  looked  down  on  the  stairs  through  a 
shining  bull's-eye  window.  The  delegate  pushed 
it  open,  and  he  and  Benedetto  entered  a  stuffy 
den,  evidently  a  sort  of  anteroom.  An  usher, 
who  was  dozing  there,  rose  wearily.  The  delegate 
left  Benedetto,  and  went  into  the  next  room. 
Then  the  usher  bent  down  as  if  to  pick  up  some- 
thing, and  said  to  Benedetto,  offering  him  a 
letter : 

"See!  you  have  dropped  this  paper!" 
Benedetto  was  astonished  and  the  usher  insisted  : 
"You  have  come  from  the  Testaccio,  have  you 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World     359 

not?  Well,  you  will  find  that  this  belongs  to  you. 
Make  haste." 

Make  haste?  Benedetto  stared  at  the  man, 
who  had  resumed  his  seat.  He  stared  back  and 
confirmed  his  advice  with  a  short  nod  which 
meant:  You  suspect  there  is  a  mystery  here, 
and  indeed  there  is! 

Benedetto  examined  the  envelope.  It  bore  the 
following  address : 

"  For  the  Under-Gardener  at  Villa  Mayda." 
And  below,  in  larger  letters : 

"IMMEDIATE." 

It  was  in  a  woman's  hand,  but  Benedetto  did  not 
recognize  it.  He  opened  the  letter  and  read : 

"This  is  to  inform  you  that  the  Director- 
General  of  Police  will  do  his  best  to  induce  you  to 
leave  Rome  of  your  own  free-will.  Refuse. 
You  can  read  what  follows  at  your  leisure." 

Benedetto  hurriedly  replaced  the  letter,  but 
as  no  one  appeared,  and  everything  around  him 
seemed  to  be  asleep,  he  took  it  out  again  and  read 
on.  It  ran  thus: 

"Since  your  visits  to  the  Vatican  there  has 
been  much  dissatisfaction  with  the  Holy  Father. 
Among  other  things,  he  has  withdrawn  the  Selva 
affair  from  the  Congregation  of  the  Index.  You 
can  have  no  idea  of  the  intrigues  which  are  being 
set  on  foot  against  you,  of  the  calumnies  concern- 


360  The  Saint 

ing  you  which  are  communicated  even  to  your 
friends,  and  all  with  the  object  of  compelling  you 
to  leave  Rome  and  preventing  you  from  seeing 
the  Pontiff  again.  This  conspiracy  has  obtained 
the  support  of  the  Government  by  means  of  a 
promise,  in  return,  not  to  ratify  the  proposed 
nomination  to  the  Archiepiscopal  See  of  Turin 
of  a  person  very  obnoxious  to  the  Quirinal. 
Do  not  yield.  Do  not  abandon  the  Holy  Father 
and  your  mission.  The  threat  concerning  the 
affair  at  Jenne  is  not  serious;  it  would  not  be 
possible  to  proceed  against  you,  and  they  know 
it.  The  person  who  may  not  write  to  you  dis- 
covered all  this,  and  has  asked  me  to  write  this 
note ;  she  will  make  sure  that  it  reaches  you. 

"  NOEMT  D'ARXEL." 

Involuntarily  Benedetto  looked  towards  the 
usher,  as  if  he  had  suspected  him  of  knowing  the 
contents  of  this  letter  which  had  passed  through 
his  hands.  But  the  usher  was  dozing  again,  and 
was  only  roused  by  the  return  of  the  delegate, 
who  ordered  him  to  conduct  Benedetto  to  the 
Signor  Commendatore.1 

Benedetto  was  introduced  into  a  spacious 
apartment,  all  dark  save  in  one  corner,  where  a 
gentleman  about  fifty  years  of  age  sat  reading  the 
Tribuna  by  the  light  of  an  electric  lamp,  which 
shone  upon  his  bald  head,  upon  the  newspaper, 
and  upon  the  table,  littered  with  documents. 

'  Commendatore  :  a  title  borne  by  those  upon  whom  cer- 
tain Italian  orders  have  been  conferred. — Translator's  Note. 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World     361 

Above  him,  in  the  dim  light,  a  large  portrait  of  the 
King  was  dimly  visible. 

He  did  not  at  once  raise  his  head — heavy  with 
conscious  power — from  the  newspaper.  He  raised 
it  when  he  felt  inclined  to  do  so,  and  looked 
carelessly  at  this  atom  of  the  people  who  stood 
before  him. 

"  Be  seated, "  he  said  in  a  frigid  tone. 

Benedetto  obeyed. 

"You  are  Signer  Maironi?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  troubled  you,  but  it  was 
necessary." 

There  was  harshness  and  sarcasm  underlying 
the  Signer  Commendatore's  courteous  words. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  "why  are  you  not 
called  by  your  real  name?" 

Benedetto  did  not  answer  this  unexpected 
question  at  once. 

"Well,  well,"  his  interlocutor  continued.  "It 
is  not  of  much  importance  at  present.  We  are 
not  in  a  court  of  justice.  I  hold  that  if  one  is 
going  to  do  good,  it  is  best  to  do  it  in  one's  own 
name.  But  then  I  do  not  go  to  church,  and  my 
views  differ  from  yours.  However,  as  I  said  be- 
fore, it  is  of  no  importance.  Do  you  know  who 
lam?  Did  the  delegate  tell  you  ?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Very  well,  then;  I  am  a  functionary  of  the 
State,  who  takes  some  interest  in  the  public  se- 
curity, and  who  has  a  certain  amount  of  power — 


362  The  Saint 

yes,  a  certain  amount  of  power.  Now  I  am  going 
to  prove  to  you  that  I  take  an  interest  in  you  also. 
I  regret  to  say,  you  are  in  a  critical  position,  my 
dear  Signer  Maironi,  or  Signer  Benedetto,  at 
your  choice.  An  accusation  of  a  really  serious 
nature  has  been  lodged  against  you  with  the 
judicial  authorities,  and  I  see  that  not  only  your 
reputation  for  saintliness  is  in  danger,  but  also 
your  personal  liberty,  and  hence  your  preaching, 
at  least  for  several  years." 

A  flame  spread  over  Benedetto's  face,  and  his 
eyes  flashed. 

"Leave  the  saintliness  and  the  reputation 
alone,"  said  he. 

The  august  functionary  of  the  State  continued, 
unmoved : 

"I  have  wounded  you.  But  you  must  know 
that  your  reputation  for  saintliness  is  threatened 
by  other  dangers.  Other  things  are  said  about 
you  which  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  penal  code, 
—you  may  be  quite  easy  on  that  score — but 
which  are  not  in  perfect  harmony  with  Catholic 
morals.  I  assure  you  these  things  are  believed 
by  many.  I  am  simply  stating  the  facts;  it  is 
really  no  business  of  mine.  After  all,  saintliness 
is  never  a  reality;  it  is  always  more  or  less  an 
idealisation  of  the  image  by  the  mirror.  If  there, 
is  saintliness  anywhere,  it  is  in  the  mirror,  in  tho 
people  who  believe  in  the  saints.  I  myself  do 
not  believe  in  them.  But  let  us  come  to  serious 
matters.  I  was  obliged  to  say  some  unpleasant 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World     363 

things  to  you,  I  even  wounded  you;  now  I  will 
apply  the  remedy.  I  am  not  a  believer,  but, 
nevertheless,  I  appreciate  the  religious  principle 
as  an  element  of  public  order,  and  this  is  also 
the  view  taken  by  my  superiors  and  the  view 
taken  by  the  Government  itself.  Therefore  the 
Government  cannot  approve  of  proceedings  of 
such  a  scandalous  nature  against  one  whom  the 
people  regard  as  a  saint,  proceedings  which  might 
possibly  stir  up  disorder.  But  that  is  not  all! 
We  know  that  you  stand  in  high  favour  with  the 
Pope,  who  sees  you  often.  Now  the  'powers  that 
be '  have  no  desire  to  cause  the  Pope  any  personal 
annoyance.  They  have  the  good  intention  to 
spare  him  this  unpleasantness  if  possible.  And 
it  will  be  possible  on  one  condition.  Here  in 
Rome  you  have  active  enemies — not  on  our  side, 
not  on  the  Liberal  side,  you  know! — who  are 
scheming  to  ruin  you  completely,  to  rob  you  of 
your  reputation  and  everything.  If  you  wish 
to  know  my  opinion  exactly,  I  will  tell  you  that 
I  think,  from  a  Catholic  point  of  view,  they  are 
right.  I  modify  somewhat,  for  my  use  and  for 
theirs,  the  famous  motto  of  the  Jesuits,  '  Aut  sint 
ut  sunt,'  and  I  make  it,  'Aut  non  erunt.'  They 
tell  me  you  are  a  Liberal  Catholic.  That  simply 
means  that  you  are  not  a  Catholic.  But  let  us 
proceed.  Your  enemies  have  denounced  you  to 
the  Public  Prosecutor,  and  it  would  be  our  duty 
to  send  the  carabinieri  to  arrest  Signor  Pietro 
Maironi,  condemned,  in  his  absence,  by  the 


364  The  Saint 

Assize  Court  at  Brescia,  for  having  failed  to  serve 
on  a  jury  when  summoned.  But  that  is  a  slight 
matter.  You  imagine  you  healed  some  people 
at  Jenne,  and  you  are  accused  not  only  of  practis- 
ing medicine  unlawfully,  but  even  of  having 
poisoned  a  patient — nothing  less!  Now  we  have 
the  means  of  saving  you.  We  will  manage  to  hush 
up  this  accusation.  But  if  you  remain  in  Rome, 
your  enemies  here  will  make  so  much  noise  that  it 
will  be  impossible  for  us  to  feign  deafness.  You 
must  go  away  to  some  distant  place, and  go  at  once ! 
It  would  be  better  to  go  out  of  Italy.  Try  France, 
where  there  is  a  famine  of  saintliness.  Or,  at  least 
— do  you  not  own  a  house  on  Lake  Lugano? 
There  are  some  sisters  in  it  now,  are  there  not? 
Sisters  and  saints  go  extremely  well  together. 
Join  the  sisters,  and  let  this  storm  blow  over." 

The  Commendatore  spoke  very  slowly,  very 
seriously,  hiding  his  irony  under  an  indifference 
which  was  even  more  insolent. 

Benedetto  rose,  resolute  and  severe. 

"  I  was  with  a  sick  man, "  he  said,  "  who  needed 
my  illegal  medicine.  It  would  have  been  better 
to  leave  me  at  my  post.  You  and  the  Government 
are  my  worst  enemies  if  you  offer  me  the  means  to 
fly  from  justice.  Perform  your  duty  by  sending 
the  carabinieri  to  arrest  me  for  not  serving  on  the 
jury.  I  will  prove  that  it  was  impossible  for  me 
to  have  received  the  summons.  Let  the  Public 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    365 

Prosecutor  do  his  duty  by  proceeding  against  me 
on  the  strength  of  the  affair  at  Jenne;  you  will 
always  find  me  at  Villa  Mayda.  Tell  your  supe- 
riors this:  tell  them  that  I  shall  not  stir  from 
Rome,  that  I  fear  only  one  Judge,  and  let  them 
fear  Him  also  in  their  false  hearts,  for  He  will  be 
more  terrible  against  falseness  of  heart  than 
against  honest  violence!  " 

The  Commendatore,  who  had  not  been  prepared 
for  this  blow,  grew  livid  with  impotent  rage,  and 
was  about  to  burst  into  a  torrent  of  angry  words 
when  the  dull  rumble  of  a  carriage  was  heard 
entering  the  courtyard.  He  looked  away  from 
Benedetto  and  listened.  Benedetto  grasped  the 
back  of  his  chair  that  he  might  not  be  tempted 
to  turn  his  back  on  him.  The  other  man  roused 
himself;  the  angry  light,  which  for  a  moment  had 
died  down,  blazed  forth  again  in  his  eyes.  He 
threw  aside  the  newspaper  which  he  had  held  in 
his  hand  all  the  time,  and  bringing  his  fist  down 
heavily  upon  the  table,  he  exclaimed: 

"  What  are  you  doing?     Do  not  dare  to  move!  " 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  fixedly  for  a 
few  seconds  in  silence,  one  with  a  look  of  majestic 
authority,  the  other  stern  and  forbidding.  The 
official  continued  violently : 

"  Shall  I  have  you  arrested  here?  " 

Benedetto  was  still  looking  at  him  in  silence; 
at  length  he  answered: 

"  I  am  waiting.     Do  as  you  please." 

An  usher,  who  had  knocked  several  times  in 


366  The  Saint 

vain,  now  appeared  on  the  threshold  and  bowed 
to  the  Commendatore  without  speaking.  The 
Commendatore  answered  at  once:  "I  am  com- 
ing," and,  rising  hastily,  left  the  room  with  a 
strange  expression  on  his  face,  where  anger  was 
disappearing,  and  obsequiousness  was  dawning. 

The  usher  returned  immediately,  and  told 
Benedetto  to  wait. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  passed.  Benedetto, 
shivering,  his  heart  in  a  tumult,  his  head  on  fire, 
excited  and  exhausted  by  fever,  had  once  more 
sunk  upon  his  chair,  while  the  most  disconnected 
thoughts  whirled  through  his  brain.  May  God 
forgive  this  man!  Forgive  them  all!  What  joy 
if  the  Pontiff  should  forbid  the  condemnation  of 
Selva !  How  does  the  person  who  may  not  write 
to  me  know?  And  now,  why  are  they  keeping 
me  waiting?  What  more  can  they  want  with  me? 
Oh!  what  if  with  this  fever  I  should  no  longer  be 
master  of  my  thoughts  or  of  my  words?  How 
terrible!  My  God,  my  God,  do  not  permit  that! 
But  what  horrible  baseness  there  is  in  the  world, 
what  shameful,  hidden  fornication  between  these 
people  of  the  Church  and  of  the  State,  who 
hate  each  other,  who  despise  each  other!  Why, 
why  dost  Thou  permit  it,  Lord?  Still  no  one 
comes!  This  fever!  My  God,  my  God!  let  me 
remain  master  of  my  thoughts,  of  my  words. 
God  of  Truth!  Thy  servant  is  in  the  hands  of  his 
conspiring  enemies:  give  him  strength  to  glorify 
Thee,  even  in  the  burning  fire!  Those  two  persons 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    367 

are  thinking  of  me  now.  I  must  not  think  of 
them!  They  are  not  sleeping,  but  thinking  of 
me!  I  am  not  ungrateful,  not  ungrateful;  but  I 
must  not  think  of  them!  I  will  think  of  thee, 
venerable  Saint  of  the  Vatican,  who  sleepest  and 
knowest  not!  Ah!  those  narrow  stairs  which  I 
shall  never  more  ascend!  That  sweet  face,  full 
of  the  Holy  Spirit,  I  shall  never  see  again!  Still — 
God  be  praised! — I  did  not  behold  it  in  vaini 
What  am  I  doing  here?  Why  do  I  not  go  away? 
But  could  I  go  away?  Oh!  this  fever! 

He  rose,  and  tried  to  read  the  hour  on  the  round 
face  of  a  clock  which  showed  white  in  the  darkness. 
It  was  five  minutes  to  eleven.  Outside,  the 
thunder-storm  still  raged.  The  power  of  the 
maddened  elements,  the  power  of  time  which  was 
pushing  the  tiny  hands  there  on  the  face  of  the 
clock,  seemed  friendly  to  Benedetto,  in  their 
indifferent  predominance  over  the  human  power, 
in  whose  stronghold  he  was,  and  which  held  him 
at  its  mercy.  But  the  fever,  the  ever-increasing 
fever!  He  was  burning  with  thirst.  If  only  he 
could  open  a  window,  hold  out  his  mouth  to  the 
waters  of  heaven! 

An  electric  bell  sounded,  and  at  last  he  hears 
steps  in  the  anteroom.  Here  is  the  Commenda- 
tore,  in  his  hat  and  overcoat.  He  closes  the  door 
behind  him,  gathers  up  the  papers  lying  on  the 
table,  and  says  to  Benedetto,  with  a  disdainful  air: 

"  Mark  this.  We  give  you  three  days  in  which 
to  leave  Rome.  Do  you  understand?" 


368  The  Saint 

Without  even  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  pressed 
a  bell.     The  usher  entered,  and  he  commanded : 
"Show  him  out!" 

On  reaching  the  great  stairway  with  his  guide, 
Benedetto,  believing  himself  free  to  descend, 
begged  for  a  little  water. 

"Water?"  the  usher  replied.  " I  cannot  go  for 
it  now.  His  Excellency  is  waiting.  Please  step 
this  way." 

To  Benedetto's  great  astonishment,  he  invited 
him  to  enter  the  lift. 

"Both  their  Excellencies,"  said  the  usher, 
correcting  himself,  and,  as  the  lift  ascended  to  the 
second  floor,  he  looked  at  Benedetto  as  at  one 
about  to  receive  a  great  honour  which  he  does 
not  appear  to  deserve.  When  they  reached  the 
second  floor,  the  two  traversed  an  immense  hall 
dimly  lighted.  From  this  hall  Benedetto  was 
shown  into  an  apartment  so  brilliantly  illumined 
as  to  cause  him  discomfort  and  suffering,  and  he 
was  nearly  blinded. 

Two  men,  seated  in  the  two  corners  of  a  large 
sofa,  were  waiting  for  him,  each  in  a  different 
attitude,  the  younger  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
his  legs  crossed,  and  his  head  leaning  against  the 
back  of  the  couch;  the  elder  with  his  body  bent 
forward,  and  continuously  stroking  his  grey 
beard,  first  with  one  hand  and  then  with  the 
other.  The  first  individual  had  a  sarcastic 
expression,  the  second  a  searching,  melancholy, 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    369 

kindly  one.  The  latter,  who  evidently  possessed 
the  greater  authority  of  the  two,  invited  Ben- 
edetto to  be  seated  in  an  easy-chair,  opposite  to 
him. 

"You  must  not  think,  dear  Signer  Maironi," 
said  he  in  a  voice  both  harmonious  and  deep,  and 
which  seemed,  in  a  way,  to  correspond  with  the 
melancholy  look  in  his  eyes,  "you  must  not  think 
that  we  are  here  as  two  powerful  arms  of  the  State. 
We  are  here,  at  the  present  moment,  as  two 
individuals  of  a  very  rare  species,  two  statesmen 
who  know  their  business  well,  and  who  despise 
it  still  more.  We  are  two  great  idealists,  who 
know  how  to  lie  in  a  most  ideal  manner  to  those 
who  deserve  nothing  better,  and  who  also  know 
how  to  adore  Truth;  two  democrats,  but  neverthe- 
less two  adorers  of  that  recondite  Truth  which 
has  never  been  touched  by  the  dirty  hands  of 
old  Demos." 

Having  spoken  thus,  the  man  of  the  flowing  grey 
beard  once  more  began  to  stroke  it,  first  with  one 
hand,  then  with  the  other,  and,  puckering  his  eyes, 
which  sparkled  with  a  shrewd  smile,  for  he  was 
pleased  with  his  own  words,  watched  for  surprise 
on  Benedetto's  face. 

"We  are,  moreover,  believers  also,"  he  con- 
tinued. 

The  other  personage,  without  raising  his  head 
from  the  back  of  the  couch,  lifted  his  open  hands, 
and  said,  almost  solemnly: 

"Steady!" 


370  The  Saint 

"*Let  the  word  pass,  my  dear  friend,"  the  first 
speaker  said,  without  looking  towards  him. 
"We  are  both  believers,  but  in  different  ways. 
I  believe  in  God  with  all  my  might,  and  my  might 
is  great,  and  I  shall  have  Him  with  me  always. 
You  believe  in  God  with  all  your  weaknesses, 
and  they  are  few,  and  you  will  not  have  Him 
with  you  until  you  are  upon  your  death-bed." 

Another  shrewd  and  self-complacent  smile, 
another  pause.  The  friend  shook  his  head,  raising 
his  eyebrows  as  if  he  had  heard  a  jest  deserving 
only  of  commiseration,  but  not  of  an  answer. 
'"**!,  for  my  part,"  the  deep  and  harmonious 
voice  went  on,  "  am  also  a  Christian.  Not  a  Catho- 
lic, but  a  Christian.  Indeed,  because  I  am  a  Chris- 
tian am  an  anti-Catholic.  My  heart  is  Christian, 
and  my  brain  is  Protestant.  It  is  with  joy  that  I  see 
in  Catholicism  signs,  not  of  decrepitude,  but  of 
putrefaction.  Charity  is  being  dissolved  in  the 
most  sincerely  Catholic  hearts  into  a  dark  mud, 
full  of  the  worms  of  hatred.  I  see  Catholicism 
cracking  in  many  places,  and  I  see  the  ancient 
idolatry  upon  which  it  has  raised  itself  bursting 
forth  through  the  cracks.  What  few  youthful, 
healthy,  and  vital  energies  appear  within  it,  all 
tend  to  separate  from  it.  I  know  that  you  are  a 
radical  Catholic,  that  you  are  the  friend  of  a  man 
who  is  really  sound  and  strong,  and  who  calls 
himself  a  Catholic,  but  who  is  pronounced  a 
heretic  by  true  Catholics ;  and  a  heretic  he  certainly 
is.  I  have  been  told  you  are  a  pupil  of  this  noble 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    371 

heretic,  who  labours  for  reforms  and  who,  at  the 
same  time,  tries  to  influence  the  Pontiff.  Now, 
I  myself  am  looking  for  a  great  reformer,  but  he 
must  be  an  antipope ;  not  antipope  in  the  narrow, 
historical  sense,  but  an  antipope  in  the  Lutheran 
sense  of  the  word.  Curiosity  pricks  us  to  know  in 
what  way  you  believe  it  possible  to  rejuvenate  this 
poor  old  Papacy,  of  which  we  laymen  are  ahead 
not  only  in  the  conquest  of  civilisation,  but  also 
in  the  science  of  God,  even  in  the  science  of  Christ, 
this  Papacy  which  follows  us  at  a  great  distance, 
panting  and  stopping  by  the  way  every  now  and 
then,  hanging  back  like  an  animal  which  smells 
the  shambles,  and  then,  when  it  is  pulled 
very  hard,  jumping  forward,  only  to  stop  again 
until  the  rope  is  twitched  once  more.  Ex- 
plain your  idea  of  Catholic  reform  to  us.  Let  us 
hear  it." 

Benedetto  remained  silent. 

"Speak,"  continued  the  unknown  deity  who 
appeared  to  reign  in  that  place.  "  My  friend  is 
not  Herod,  nor  am  I  Pilate.  We  might  perhaps 
both  become  apostles  of  your  idea." 

His  friend  once  more  extended  his  wide-open 
hands,  without  raising  his  head  from  the  sofa-back, 
and  said  again,  with  a  stronger  accent  on  the 
first  syllable : 

"Steady!" 

Benedetto  was  silent. 

"  It  appears  to  me,  caro  mio, "  said  the  friend, 
turning  his  head  alone  towards  his  colleaguej 


37*  The  Saint 

"that  this  promises  to  be  the  first  time  your 
eloquence  has  failed  you.  Here  the  model  of  the 
nihil  respondit  is  taken  very  seriously." 

Benedetto  shuddered,  horrified  at  this  allusion 
to  the  Divine  Master,  and  the  fear  of  seeming  a 
presumptuous  imitator.  At  that  moment  he 
ceased  to  feel  his  illness.  —  the  fever,  the  thirst, 
the  heaviness  of  his  head. 

"Oh,  no  !"  he  exclaimed,  "now  I  will  answer! 
You  say  you  are  not  Pilate.  But  the  truth  is 
that  I  am  the  least  of  Christ's  servants,  because 
I  have  been  unfaithful  to  Him,  and  you  repeat  to 
me  Pilate's  very  words: — Quid  est  veritas?  Now 
you  are  not  disposed  to  receive  truth,  as  Pilate 
was  not  disposed  to  receive  it." 

"Oh!"  his  interlocutor  exclaimed.  "And  why 
not?" 

His  friend  laughed  noisily. 

"Because,"  Benedetto  replied,  "he  who  per- 
forms deeds  of  darkness  is  surrounded  by  darkness, 
and  the  light  cannot  reach  him.  You  perform 
deeds  of  darkness.  It  is  not  difficult  to  understand ; 
you  are  the  Minister  of  the  Interior — I  know  you 
by  reputation.  You  were  not  born  to  perform 
deeds  of  darkness;  there  has  been  much  light  In 
some  of  your  deeds,  there  is  much  light  in  your 
soul,  much  light  of  truth  and  of  kindness;  but  at 
this  moment  you  are  performing  a  deed  of  dark- 
ness. I  am  here  to-night  because  you  have 
entered  into  a  shameful  bargain.  You  say  you 
adore  Truth,  and  you  ask  a  brother  if  he  possess 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World     373 

Truth,  while  you  hide  the  fact  that  you  have 
already  sold  him! " 

During  Benedetto's  speech,  the  Minister's  friend 
— himself  an  Excellency,  but  of  lower  rank — had 
raised  his  head  from  the  couch  at  last.  He 
seemed  to  be  only  now  beginning  to  consider  the 
man  and  what  he  was  saying  worthy  of  attention. 
He  also  seemed  amused  at  the  lesson  his  chief  had 
received.  He  admired  his  friend's  great  genius, 
but  scoffed  in  his  heart  at  his  passing  fits  of 
idealism.  The  chief  was  at  first  amazed;  then  he 
started  to  his  feet,  shouting  like  a  madman : 

"You  are  a  liar!  You  are  insolent!  You  do 
not  deserve  my  kindness!  I  have  not  sold  you, 
you  are  not  worth  anything;  I  will  give  you 
away!  Go!  Go  away!" 

He  looked  for  the  button  of  the  electric  bell, 
and  not  finding  it  in  the  blindness  of  his  rage,  he 
shrieked : 

"Usher!     Usher!" 

The  Under-Secretary  of  State,  who  was  used  to 
these  scenes — they  were  nothing  worse  than 
"fires  of  straw,"  for  the  Minister  had  a  heart  of 
gold — at  first  laughed  in  his  sleeve.  When, 
however,  he  heard  his  friend  call  the  usher  in  that 
tone,  knowing  well  the  indiscretion  of  ushers  and 
how  much  dangerous  gossip  might  arise  from  this 
incident,  reflecting  ridicule  also  on  himself,  he 
resolutely  restrained  the  Minister,  almost  com- 
manding him  to  calm  himself.  Then  lie  said 
sharply  to  Benedetto: 

"Go,  at  oncel" 


374  The  Saint 

The  Minister  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the 
room  in  silence,  his  head  bowed,  with  short, 
hurried  steps,  struggling  to  conquer  the  child  in 
him,  which  would  have  liked  to  stamp  its  feet. 

Benedetto  did  not  obey.  Erect  and  severe, 
glowing  with  the  invisible  rays  of  a  dominating 
spirit,  which  kept  the  Under-Secretary  of  State 
at  a  distance,  he  forced  the  other,  through  this 
magnetic  power,  to  turn  towards  him,  to  stop 
and  to  look  him  in  the  face. 

" Signor  Ministro,"  he  said.  "I  am  about  to 
leave  not  only  this  palace,  but  very  soon,  I  believe, 
this  world  also.  I  shall  not  see  you  again;  listen 
to  me  for  the  last  time.  You  are  not  now  disposed 
to  receive  the  Truth ;  nevertheless,  the  Truth  is  at 
your  door,  and  the  hour  will  come — it  is  not  far 
distant,  for  your  life  is  on  the  wane — when  night 
will  fall  upon  you,  upon  all  your  power,  all  your 
honours,  all  your  ambitions.  Then  you  will  hear 
Truth  calling  out  in  the  night.  You  can  answer 
'Begone' — and  you  will  never  meet  her  again. 
You  can  answer  'Enter' — and  you  will  see  her 
appear,  veiled,  and  breathing  sweetness  through 
her  veil.  You  do  not  now  know  what  you  will 
answer,  nor  do  I  know,  nor  does  any  one  in  the 
world.  Prepare  yourself,  by  good  works,  to  give 
the  right  answer.  Whatever  your  errors  may  be 
there  is  religion  in  your  soul.  God  has  given  you 
much  power  in  this  world ;  use  it  to  good  purpose. 
You  who  were  born  a  Catholic  say  you  are  a 
Protestant.  Perhaps  you  do  not  know  Catholi- 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World     375 

cism  well  enough  to  understand  that  Protestantism  u 
is  being  shattered  upon  the  dead  Christ,  while 
Catholicism  evolves  by  virtue  of  the  living  Christ. 

But  now  I  speak  to  the  statesman,  not,  indeed, 
* 

to  implore  him  to  protect  the  Catholic  Church, 
which  would  be  a  misfortune,  but  to  tell  him  that 
though  the  State  may  not  be  either  Catholic  or 

ff* 

Protestant,  neither  may  it  ignore  God,  and  you 
dare  to  ignore  Him  in  more  than  one  of  your'- 
schools,  in  those  you  call  high,  and  this  in  the  name 
of  freedom  of  science,  which  you  confound  with 
freedom  of  thought  and  of  speech;  for  thought 
and  speech  are  free  to  deny  God,  but  the  negation 
of  God  neither  partakes  nor  can  partake  of  the  ,,tt 
nature  of  science,  and  you  are  bound  to  teach 
science  alone.  You  are  well  acquainted  with 
that  petty  statesmanship  which  forces  you  to  a 
private  compromise  with  your  conscience,  in 
order  to  obtain  in  secret  some  favour  from  the 
Vatican,  in  which  you  do  not  believe,  but  you  are 
ill  acquainted  with  that  grand  statesmanship 
which  upholds  the  authority  of  Him  who  is  the 
eternal  principle  of  all  justice.  You  work  harder 
to  destroy  it  than  the  atheistic  professors  them- 
selves ;  for,  after  all,  the  atheistic  professors  have 
but  little  power;  you  statesmen,  who  sometimes 
talk  of  your  belief  in  God,  you  undermine  His 
authority  far  more  deeply  than  those  professors, 
by  the  bad  example  of  your  practical  atheism. 
You  who  imagine  you  believe  in  the  Godhead  of 
Christ  are,  in  reality,  prophets  and  priests  of  the 


376  The  Saint 

false  gods.  You  serve  them,  as  the  idolatrous 
Hebrew  princes  served  them,  in  high  places,  in 
the  presence  of  the  people.  You  serve,  in  the 
high  places,  the  gods  of  all  earthly  lusts." 

"Bravo!"  interrupted  the  Minister,  who  was 
well  known  for  the  austerity  of  his  life,  his  domestic 
virtues,  and  his  carelessness  concerning  money. 
"You  amuse  me! " 

And  he  added,  turning  to  his  friend : 

"  It  was  really  not  worth  while." 

"Understand  me  well!"  Benedetto  continued. 
"  Yes,  you  also  are  one  of  these  priests.  Do  I  then 
speak  of  ordinary  revellers?  I  speak  of  you  and  of 
others  like  you,  who  esteem  yourselves  honest 
men  because  you  do  not  plunge  your  hands  into 
the  coffers  of  the  State,  who  esteem  yourselves 
moral  men  because  you  do  not  give  yourselves  up 
to  the  pleasures  of  the  senses.  I  will  tell  you  two 
things:  All  the  while  you  are  worshipping 
pleasures  which  are  still  more  sinful.  You  make 
false  gods  of  yourselves  unto  yourselves;  you 
worship  the  pleasure  of  contemplating  yourselves 
in  all  your  power,  in  all  your  honours,  in  the 
admiration  of  the  world.  To  your  false  gods 
you  wickedly  sacrifice  many  human  victims,  and 
the  integrity  of  your  own  character.  There  is  a 
compact  among  you  by  which  each  is  bound  to 
respect  his  colleague's  false  god,  and  promote  its 
worship.  The  purest  among  you  are  at  least 
guilty  of  this  complicity.  You  look  away  when 
there  is  a  suggestion  of  foul  conspiracies  with  vile 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    377 

aims,  or  of  the  shameful  intrigues  of  factions 
which  crawl  in  the  dark,  letting  them  go  by  in 
silence.  You  regard  yourselves  as  incorrupt,  and 
you  corrupt  others!  You  distribute  the  public 
money  regularly  to  people  who  sell  you  their 
honour  and  the  probity  of  -their  consciences. 
You  despise  and  you  nurture  this  infamy,  which 
goes  on  under  the  shadow  of  your  authority.  It 
is  more  sinful  to  buy  votes  and  flattery  than  to  sell 
them!  You  are  the  most  corrupt  of  all!  Your 
second  sin  is  that  you  consider  lying  a  necessity 
of  your  position;  you  lie  as  you  would  drink 
water.  You  lie  to  the  people,  lie  to  the  Parlia- 
ment, lie  to  the  Crown,  lie  to  your  adversaries, 
lie  to  your  friends.  I  know — some  of  you  do  not 
personally  indulge  in  the  general  prevarication, 
but  you  tolerate  it  in  your  colleagues.  Many  of 
you  shrink  from  assuming  this  on  entering  the 
seat  of  government,  as,  upon  entering  a  mine,  we 
put  on  a  dirty  dress  to  protect  our  own  and,  on 
coming  out,  lay  it  down  joyfully.  But  can  these, 
who  are  the  best,  call  themselves  faithful  servants 
of  Truth?  '  You  believe  in  God,  and  perhaps  on 
your  death-bed  you  will  believe  you  have  offended 
God  most  seriously,  as  statesmen,  by  your  acts 
of  violence  against  the  Church,  in  the  name  of 
the  State.  No,  these  will  not  be  your  greatest 
sins.  If  men  go  into  Parliament,  and  through 
Parliament  into  the  Government,  who  profess, 
as  philosophers,  not  to  know  God,  but  who  rise 
up  in  the  name  of  Truth  against  this  arbitrary 


378  The  Saint 

tyranny  of  Untruth,  they  are  serving  God  better 
than  you  and  will  be  more  pleasing  to  God  than 
you,  who  believe  in  Him  as  an  idol  and  not  as  the 
Spirit  of  Truth,  than  you  who  dare  to  talk  of  the 
putrefaction  of  Catholicism,  you  who  stink  of 
falsity.  Yes,  who  stink  of  it!  You  make  the 
air  of  the  heights  so  impure,  so  contrary  to  what 
it  should  be,  that  it  is  difficult  to  breathe  it.  You 
have  a  devout  heart,  Signer  Ministro;  do  not  tell 
me  that  in  this  palace  one  cannot  serve  God." 

"Do  you  know — "  the  Minister  exclaimed 
angrily,  crossing  his  arms  upon  his  breast,  while 
the  Under-Secretary  of  State  extended  his  hand 
graciously  towards  him  to  check  the  indignant 
words. 

"Gently,  gently,  gently!"  said  he.  "Allow 
me.  I  find  this  most  entertaining. " 

The  Under-Secretary  of  State  was  short  and 
round,  and  full  of  respect  for  his  own  secretary- 
ship, like  an  egg  in  the  conscious  possession  of  a 
sacred  chick.  As  a  man  he  was  far  inferior  to 
the  Minister,  and  very  unlike  him.  He  had  none 
of  the  intellectual  curiosity  of  his  superior,  and 
had  consented  to  be  present  at  this  interview 
simply  to  please  him.  His  superior,  possessed 
of  a  keen  wit,  was  in  the  habit  of  throwing  his 
own  light  now  on  one,  now  on  another  of  the 
persons  who  revolved  around  him,  and,  at  such 
moments,  he  was  apt  to  believe  that  they  shone 
of  themselves,  as  perhaps  the  sun  may  believe 
is  the  case  with  the  orbs  that  pay  their  court  to 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    379 

it.  The  Under-Secretary  of  State  reflected  light 
upon  the  Minister,  and  the  Minister  reflected 
admiration  upon  the  Under-Secretary  of  State. 
The  Minister  had  desired  his  presence  at  this 
interview,  not  comprehending  that  this  little 
Mercury  of  his  planetary  system,  having  re- 
solved in  his  youth  to  free  himself  from  the 
supernatural,  which  hampered  the  most  spon- 
taneous movements  of  his  selfish  nature,  had  come 
to  hate  the  supernatural  with  much  the  same 
hatred  which  the  sick  conceive  for  the  man  who, 
they  know,  has  gloomily  diagnosed  their  illness. 
As  these  unfortunates  seek  to  persuade  them- 
selves that  the  prophet  is  not  worthy  of  faith, 
and,  whilst  his  prophecy  is  gradually  being 
fulfilled,  become  more  and  more  impatient, 
and  struggle  ever  harder  to  overthrow  that 
threatening  authority,  so  this  man,  the  more  he 
felt  his  youthful  vigour  declining,  felt  material- 
istic dogmas  losing  credit,  and  from  time  to  time 
perceived  in  his  heart  certain  stabbing  appre- 
hensions of  a  formidable  truth  which,  wakened 
by  degrees,  became  the  more  embittered  in  his 
hatred  hidden  beneath  careless  irony. 

"  Look  here,  my  good  sir, "  said  he,  when  he  had, 
by  his  words  and  gesture,  made  room  for  himself 
in  the  conversation.  "You  talk  a  great  deal 
about  false  and  true  gods.  I  don't  know  whether 
yours  be  false  or  true.  He  may  be  true,  but  He 
is  certainly  unreasonable.  A  God  who  made  the 
world  as  he  chose,  in  such  a  way  that  it  must  wag 


380  The  Saint 

as  it  does,  and  then  comes  and  tells  us  that  we 
must  make  it  wag  in  a  different  way — well 
now,  you  know!  He  is  certainly  not  a  reasonable 
God!  You  have  taken  the  liberty  to  empty  out  a 
whole  bagful  of  abuse,  a.  bagful  of  accusations 
against  statesmen;  they  are  calumnies,  especially 
if  you  apply  them  to  that  gentleman  over  there, 
or  to  me;  but  I  am  willing  to  admit  that  politics 
are  not  a  suitable  business  for  saints.  He  who 
made  the  world  did  not  intend  that  they  should 
be!  He  is  to  blame  for  that.  Nevertheless,  some 
one  must  attend  to  politics.  At  present  we  are 
doing  this,  and  if  we  ourselves  be  not  saints,  at 
least  you  see  how  patiently  we  deal  with  saints. 
And  listen." 

The  Under-Secretary  looked  at  his  watch. 

"It  is  getting  late,"  he  said,  "and  saintliness 
may  encounter  some  dangers,  at  such  a  late  hour, 
in  the  streets  of  Rome.  You  had  better  go,  now." 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  towards  the  electric 
bell,  meaning  to  summon  the  usher. 

"Signor  Ministro!"  Benedetto  exclaimed,  with 
such  vehemence  that  the  Under-Secretary  re- 
mained motionless,  his  arm  extended,  as  though 
frozen  in  the  act.  "You  fear  for  the  State,  for 
the  Monarchy,  for  liberty,  you  fear  the  socialists 
and  the  anarchists,  but  you  should  be  far  more 
afraid  of  your  colleagues,  who  scoff  at  God!  for 
socialism  and  anarchism  are  merely  fevers,  while 
scoffing  is  even  as  gangrene!  As  for  you,"  he 
added,  turning  to  the  Under-Secretary,  "you 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    381 

deride   One   who   is   silent.     Fear  His  silence!" 
Before  either  of  the  two  potentates  could  speak 
a  word,  or  move,  Benedetto  had  left  the  room. 

He  descended  the  great  stairway,  all  quivering 
with  the  reflex  action  of  the  words  which  had 
burst  from  his  heart,  and  with  the  feverish  fire 
in  his  blood.  His  legs  shook  and  bent  under  him. 
He  was  once  or  twice  obliged  to  seize  the  banisters 
and  stop.  On  reaching  the  last  column,  he  leaned 
his  throbbing  forehead  against  it,  seeking  its 
coolness.  But  immediately  he  drew  away,  with 
a  feeling  of  repugnance  for  the  very  stones  of  this 
palace,  as  if  they  were  infected  by  treason,  were 
accomplices  of  the  atrociously  vile  bargain  which 
had  been  struck  there  between  ministers  of  Christ 
and  ministers  of  the  State.  He  sat  down  on  one 
of  the  lower  steps,  quite  exhausted,  without 
noticing  the  lighted  lamps  of  a  carriage  which  was 
waiting  close  to  him,  doubtless  the  Minister's 
carriage,  and  not  caring  who  might  see  him. 
He  breathed  more  freely;  his  indignation  was 
beginning  to  cool  down  and  turn  to  sorrow,  and  a 
desire  to  weep  for  the  sad  blindness  of  the  world. 
Then  he  began  to  feel  so  lonely,  so  bitterly  lonely. 
Only  she,  the  partner  of  his  past  errors,  had 
watched,  had  discovered,  had  acted.  Only  through 
her  had  he  been  able  to  hold  his  own  with  the 
Minister,  knowing  what  manner  of  language  to 
use  with  him.  His  other  friends,  the  friends 
devoted  to  his  religious  ideas,  had  slept,  and  were 


382  The  Saint 

still  sleeping.  The  bitter  thought  that  they  no 
longer  cared  for  him  was  pleasing  to  him.  It 
was  pleasant  to  give  himself  up,  for  once  at  least, 
to  pity  for  his  own  fate,  for  once  to  drain  the  cup 
to  the  dregs,  to  picture  his  fate  even  more  painful 
and  bitter  than  it  really  was.  All  were  against 
him,  all  were  in  league  against  him!  Alone,  alone, 
alone!  And  was  he  really  strong  at  heart?  That 
man  up  there,  that  Minister  who  possessed  genius 
and  personal  kindliness — what  if  he  were  right, 
after  all?  What  if  Catholicism  were  really  past 
healing?  Lo!  the  Lord  Himself,  the  Lord  he  had 
served,  the  Lord  who  had  struck  down  his  body, 
and  delivered  him  into  the  power  of  his  enemies, 
now  was  abandoning  his  soul.  Anguish,  mortal 
anguish !  He  longed  to  die  on  that  very  spot  and 
to  be  at  peace. 

Above  him  he  heard  the  voices  of  the  Minister 
and  the  Under-Secretary,  who  were  coming  down. 
Benedetto  rose  with  an  effort,  and  dragged 
himself  into  the  street.  On  the  left,  a  few  paces 
beyond  the  door,  he  saw  another  carriage  waiting. 
A  servant  in  livery  stood  on  the  sidewalk  talking 
with  the  coachman.  When  Benedetto  appeared 
the  servant  hastened  towards  him.  In  the 
gaslight,  Benedetto  recognised  the  old  Roman 
from  Villa  Diedo,  the  footman  of  the  Dessalles. 
It  suddenly  flashed  across  his  troubled  brain  that 
Jeanne  was  there  in  the  carriage,  waiting  for  him, 
and  he  started  back  a  step. 

"No,  "said  he. 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    383 

Meanwhile  the  carriage  had  moved  forward; 
Benedetto  imagined  he  saw  Jeanne,  that  he  was 
being  forced  to  get  into  the  carriage  with  her, 
and  that  he  had  not  the  strength  to  resist.  Seized 
with  giddiness  he  staggered  back  again,  and 
would  have  fallen  had  the  footman  not  caught 
him  in  his  arms.  He  found  himself  in  the  carriage 
without  knowing  how  he  had  got  there,  with  an 
unpleasant  bright  light  opposite  to  him,  and  a 
loud  buzzing  in  his  ears.  Little  by  little  he 
understood.  He  was  alone;  an  acetylene  lamp 
was  shining  in  his  face.  The  door  on  his  right 
was  open  and  the  footman  was  speaking  to  him. 
What  was  he  saying?  Where  should  they  drive? 
To  Villa  Mayda?  Yes,  certainly,  to  Villa  Mayda. 
Could  not  that  light  be  extinguished?  The 
servant  put  it  out,  and  spoke  of  a  paper.  What 
paper?  A  paper  the  Signora  had  placed  in  the 
inside  pocket  of  the  coupe,  ordering  him  to  give 
it  to  the  gentleman.  Benedetto  did  not  under- 
stand, or  see.  The  footman  took  the  paper  and 
slipped  it  into  Benedetto's  pocket.  Then  he 
inquired  about  the  gentler.ian's  health,  as  his 
masters — this  time  he  said  'his  masters' — had 
ordered  him  to  do.  If  he  had  seen  him  lying 
dead  this  scrupulous  individual  would  have 
carried  out  the  order  just  the  same.  Instead 
of  answering,  Benedetto  begged  that  a  little 
water  might  be  brought  to  him.  The  footman 
fetched  some  from  a  neighbouring  caf$  and 
Benedetto  drank  it  eagerly,  experiencing  great 


384  The  Saint 

relief.  As  he  took  the  empty  cup  from  him, 
the  footman  thought  it  best  to  complete  his 
message : 

"The  Signora  ordered  me  to  tell  you,  if  you 
inquired,  that  they  sent  the  carriage  because 
they  knew  you  were  not  well,  and  they  thought 
that  in  this  place  and  at  this  hour  it  would  be 
impossible  for  you  to  find  one." 

The  coup£  had  excellent  springs  and  rubber 
tires.  What  a  rest  it  was  for  Benedetto  to  roll 
along  thus,  silently,  alone  in  a  dark  soft  carriage, 
in  the  heart  of  the  night!  From  time  to  time 
vistas  of  bright  streets  loomed  on  the  right  and  on 
the  left,  and  this  was  painful  to  him,  as  if  those  long 
rows  of  lights  had  been  his  enemies.  But  imme- 
diately there  came  back  the  darkness  of  the  narrow 
streets  and  the  flight,  on  footpaths  and  houses, 
of  the  unsteady  lights  of  the  coupt.  The  coach- 
man set  the  horse  to  a  walking  pace,  and  Benedetto 
looked  out  into  the  darkness.  It  seemed  to  him 
they  had  just  begun  to  ascend  the  Aventine  Hill. 
He  felt  better;  the  fever,  intensified  by  the 
physical  and  moral  strain  of  that  night  of  strife, 
was  now  rapidly  decreasing.  Then,  for  the  first 
time,  he  perceived  the  subtle  perfume  of  the 
coupt,  the  perfume  Jeanne  always  used,  and 
there  rushed  upon  him  the  vivid  memory  of  the 
return  from  Praglia  with  her,  of  the  moment 
when,  having  left  her  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  leading 
to  Villa  Diedo,  he  had  gone  on  alone  in  the  victoria 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World     385 

which  was  still  filled  with  her  warmth  and  her 
perfume,  alone,  and  intoxicated  with  his  love 
secret.  Terrified  at  the  vividness  of  these  mem- 
ories he  pressed  his  arms  to  his  breast,  and  strove 
to  withdraw  himself  from  his  senses  and  his 
memory,  into  the  very  centre  of  his  being.  He 
gasped,  with  parted  lips,  unable  to  banish  that 
image  from  his  inner  vision.  And  others  flashed 
through  his  mind,  leaving  his  unyielding  will 
unconquered,  but  causing  it  to  tremble  like  a 
tightly  drawn  rope.  Now  it  was  the  idea  that 
only  Jeanne  really  loved  him,  that  only  Jeanne 
suffered  through  his  suffering.  Now  it  was  her 
voice,  complaining  that  her  love  was  not  returned, 
her  voice  asking  for  love,  in  the  tones  of  a  little 
song  by  Saint-Saens,  so  sweet,  so  sad,  and  familiar 
to  them  both,  and  concerning  which  he  had  once 
said  to  her  at  Villa  Diedo  that  he  could  never  refuse 
anything  to  one  who  prayed  thus.  Now  it  was 
the  idea  of  fleeing  far,  far  away  and  for  ever,  from 
this  pagan  and  pharisaical  Rome.  Again  it  was 
a  vision  of  peace  and  pure  converse  with  the 
woman  whom  he  would  win  over  to  the  faith  at 
last.  It  was  an  ardent  desire  to  say  to  the  Lord : — 
"The  world  is  too  sad,  let  me  adore  Thee  thus." 
Then  there  came  the  thought  that  in  all  this  there 
was  no  sin,  there  was  no  sin  in  abandoning  his  mis- 
sion in  the  presence  of  so  many  enemies.  He  began 
to  doubt  whether  he  really  had  any  mission  at  all, 
whether  he  had  not  rather  yielded  to  deceitful  sug- 
gestions, believed  in  the  reality  of  phantoms,  and 


386  The  Saint 

been  deceived  by  chance  appearances.  He  saw 
the  spiritual  and  moral  features  of  his  friends  and 
disciples,  deformed  as  in  a  convex  mirror;  he  felt 
a  disheartening  certainty  that  all  he  had  hoped 
of  them  was  vain.  Then  again  that  sad,  tender 
little  song  returned,  no  longer  beseeching  but  full 
of  pity,  of  a  pity  comprehending  all  his  bitter 
struggle,  the  sorrowing  pity  of  some  unknown 
spirit  that  was  also  suffering  and  complaining 
of  God,  but  humbly,  gently,  pleading  for  all  that 
suffers  and  loves  in  the  world. 

The  carriage  stopped  at  a  cross-way,  and  the 
footman  got  down  from  the  box  and  approached 
the  window.  It  seemed  that  neither  he  nor  the 
coachman  knew  exactly  where  this  Villa  Mayda 
was.  On  the  right,  a  narrow  lane  sloped  down 
between  two  walls.  Behind  the  higher  one,  on  the 
left,  huge  black  trees  rustled  loudly  in  the  west 
wind,  which  had  torn  the  clouds  asunder.  In 
the  background,  the  Janiculum  and  St.  Peter's 
loomed  black '  in  the  pale  starlight.  It  was  a 
narrow  footpath.  Was  that  where  the  Signore 
must  get  out  to  go  to  Villa  Mayda?  No,  but  the 
Signore  was  determined  to  get  out  at  any  cost,  to 
quit  that  poisoned  carriage.  He  dragged  himself 
as  far  as  Sant'  Anselmo,  struggling  with  his  poor 
weak  body  and  with  the  wind.  Exhausted  once 
more,  he  thought  of  asking  the  monks  for  hos- 
pitality, but  did  not  do  so.  He  went  down, 
skirting  the  great  silent  refuge  of  peace  belonging 
to  the  Benedictines,  passed,  sighing,  before 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    387 

the  closed  door,  which  said  in  vain  quieti  et  amicis, 
and  at  last  reached  the  gate  of  Villa  Mayda. 

The  gardener  came,  half  dressed,  to  open  the 
gate,  and  was  greatly  astonished  to  see  him.  He 
said  he  had  believed  he  was  in  prison,  because  a 
delegate  and  a  policeman  had  been  there  to  look 
for  him  at  about  nine  o'clock.  Indeed  the 
Signora,  the  Professor's  daughter-in-law,  had  at 
once  ordered  the  servants  not  to  admit  him  if  he 
returned,  but  the  order  had  been  angrily  counter- 
manded by  the  Professor  himself,  to  the  great 
joy  of  the  gardener,  who  was  as  fond  of  Benedetto 
and  of  the  master  as  he  was  averse  to  the  Signora. 
Upon  hearing  this  Benedetto  would  have  departed 
at  once  had  his  strength  allowed  him.  But  he 
was  not  in  a  condition  to  go  a  hundred  paces. 

"It  will  be  for  this  one  night  only,"  he  said. 

He  occupied  a  small  room  in  the  gardener's 
little  house.  He  had  hoped,  on  entering  it,  to  find 
the  peace  of  the  heart,  but  it  was  not  to  be.  They 
were  driving  him  away  even  from  here :  that  was 
what  he  said  in  his  heart  to  his  poor  little  bed,  to 
the  poor  furniture,  to  the  few  books,  to  the 
smoky  tallow-candle.  Fixing  his  eyes  on  the  Cruci- 
fix, which  hung  above  a  footstool  at  the  side  of  the 
bed,  he  groaned,  with  an  effort  of  his  will:  "How 
can  I  complain  so  bitterly  of  my  crosses,  Lord?" 

In  vain;  his  spirit  had  no  living  sense  either  of 
Christ  or  of  the  Cross.  He  sat  down  in  despair, 
not  wishing  to  go  to  bed  in  this  mood,  waiting 
for  a  drop  of  sweetness,  which  did  not  come. 


388  The  Saint 

A  gust  of  wind  made  him  turn  his  head  towards 
the  window,  which  had  burst  open.  He  saw  a 
great  planet  up  there  in  the  brilliant  sky,  above 
the  black  battlements  of  Porta  San  Paolo,  and 
the  black  summit  of  the  pyramid  of  Cestio,  above 
the  tops  of  the  cypresses  which  surround  the 
tomb  of  Shelley.  The  wind  howled  around  the 
little  house.  Oh!  that  night  in  the  asylum, 
where  his  wife  was  dying,  and  the  shrieks  of  the 
violent  patients,  and  the  great  planet! 

Bending  his  head,  heavy  with  grief,  he  happened 
to  notice  the  paper  which  the  footman  had  placed 
in  his  pocket.  It  was  a  large  black-edged  envelope. 
He  opened  it,  and  read  the  name  and  titles  of  his 
poor  old  mother-in-law,  the  Marchesa  Nene  Scre- 
min,  and  the  simple  words  that  followed: 

"!N  PEACE." 

He  was  as  one  turned  to  stone,  holding  the  open 
sheet  in  his  hand,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  words. 
Then  his  hands  began  to  tremble,  and  from  his 
hands  trembling  rose  to  his  breast,  growing  more 
and  more  violent  till  a  storm  of  tears  burst  from 
his  eyes. 

He  wept  as  many  memories  came  to  his  mind, 
some  sad,  some  sweet,  brought  back  to  him  by 
the  poor  dead  woman.  He  wept  with  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  crucifix,  upon  Christ,  to  whom 
in  her  last  moments  she  surely  yielded  herself 
up  with  the  fullest  confidence,  like  that  other 


In  the  Whirlpool  of  the  World    389 

dear  one,  like  his  Elisa;  he  wept  in  gratitude  to 
her,  who  even  from  that  unknown  world  was  kind 
to  him,  and  softened  his  heart.  He  recalled  the 
last  words  he  had  heard  her  speak:  "Then  shall 
we  never  meet  again?"  In  his  prophetic  soul  he 
smiled,  turned  to  the  open  window,  and  gazed 
upon  the  great  planet. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
JEANNE 

I 

A  SMALL  band  of  workmen  was  coming 
towards  Via  della  Marmorata.  It  was 
about  noon,  and  they  had  been  at  work  on  a  house 
in  course  of  construction  in  Via  Galvani.  Seeing 
little  groups  of  people  standing  under  the  trees, 
other  little  groups  at  the  doors,  and  people  also 
at  the  windows  of  the  two  last  houses  on  the  right 
and  left,  a  workman,  who  was  following  the  others 
at  a  short  distance,  called  out  in  a  loud  voice  to 
his  companions : 

"  What  a  lot  of  fools  for  one  knave!  " 

A  big,  bearded  man,  who  was  standing  on  the 
threshold  of  a  small  shop,  heard  this,  and,  coming 
forward,  accosted  him  threateningly." 

"What's  that  you  say?" 

The  other  stopped  and  stared  at  him,  answering 
mockingly : 

"Get  out!   Just  what  I  please!  " 

The  big  man  struck  him  a  blow,  and  then  the 
other  workmen  fell  upon  the  big  man  in  defence 
of  their  comrade.  Cries,  oaths,  the  flashing  of 
knives,  the  shrieks  of  women  from  the  windows, 

igo 


Jeanne  391 

people  rushing  up  from  the  avenue,  policemen 
and  guards  hurrying  to  the  spot;  in  an  instant 
the  whole  street  was  in  a  black  ferment,  while 
the  surging,  howling  mob  was  pitching  from 
right  to  left  and  from  left  to  right,  as 
if  the  street  were  a  ship  in  an  angry  sea. 
Two  yards  from  the  spot  where  the  guards 
and  the  workmen  were  struggling,  it  would 
have  been  difficult  to  ascertain  what  had  happened. 
The  crowd  was  blind  in  its  fury  against  those 
who  had  insulted  the  Saint.  Who  these  were 
they  did  not  know;  a  hundred  discordant  voices 
called  for  the  blood  of  the  big  man,  of  the  workmen, 
of  the  guards,  of  one  who  had  laughed,  of  one 
who  had  tried  to  make  peace,  and  of  one  who 
was  using  his  elbows  to  work  his  way  forward, 
as  well  as  of  one  who  was  trying  to  elbow  his  way 
out.  The  driver  of  a  tram  on  the  San  Paolo  line, 
passing  Via  Galvani,  saw  the  tumult,  and  amused 
himself  by  calling  out  to  a  group  of  women,  a 
hundred  yards  beyond,  that  the  Saint  of  Jenne 
had  been  discovered  in  Via  Galvani,  The  rumour 
ran  along  the  avenues,  full  of  chattering  groups 
and  isolated  onlookers,  as  fire  along  a  trail  of 
powder.  The  groups  broke  up,  the  people  rushed 
towards  Via  Galvani,  questioning  one  another 
as  they  ran.  The  isolated  onlookers  followed 
more  slowly,  more  cautiously,  and  presently  saw 
many  vexed  faces  returning.  The  Saint  indeed! 
It  was  only  one  of  the  usual  false  alarms.  Some 
one  saw  people  coming  down  in  haste  from 


392  The  Saint 

Sant'  Anselmo.  Another  report  went  round: 
they  are  from  Villa  Mayda,  they  are  sure  to  know! 
And  people  come  from  right  and  left,  all  hastening 
towards  the  mouth  of  Via  di  Santa  Sabina,  as 
pigeons  hasten  towards  a  handful  of  corn.  The 
isolated  onlookers  follow,  more  slowly,  more 
cautiously.  Che!  Nonsense!  At  Villa  Mayda 
nothing  is  known,  and  they  will  not  even  answer 
any  more  questions,  for  they  are  exasperated  by 
the  procession  of  people  ringing  the  bell.  A 
squad  of  carabinieri  comes  upon  the  scene,  and 
charges  down  Via  Galvani  in  serried  ranks.  Hisses 
are  heard,  and  angry  cries:  "They  know!  They 
took  him  away!"  "No"  shouts  a  woman  who 
sells  fruit,  and  who  was  one  of  a  group  on  the 
corner  of  Via  Alessandro  Volta.  "It  was  a 
delegatol  It  was  the  police!"  The  members 
of  that  group  are  less  enraged  with  the  delegate 
and  the  policemen  than  with  the  stupid  bystanders, 
who  might  easily  have  thrown  delegate,  policemen, 
cab,  horse  and  driver  into  the  river,  and,  instead, 
had  allowed  themselves  to  be  dispersed  by  a  few 
words  and  a  few  drops  of  water!  The  little 
old  woman  who  had  brought  Benedetto  to  the 
unfrocked  monk  was  there  also.  They  stop  her 
as  she  is  coming  out  of  the  bakers'  shop,  and  now 
she  is  telling  for  the  hundredth  time  the  story 
of  the  arrest,  and  crying,  also  for  the  hundredth 
time,  as  she  tells  of  the  roses,  of  the  pious  words, 
and  describes  how  very  ill  the  Saint  looked.  Her 
audience  is  moved  also,  and  mumbles  praises 


Jeanne  393 

of  the  Saint.  One  relates  a  miraculous  cure  he 
has  effected,  another  tells  of  a  second  cure;  one 
mentions  his  way  of  speaking,  which  goes  to  the 
heart;  another  praises  his  face,  which  is  as  good 
as  a  sermon;  one  speaks  of  his  poverty,  and 
another  tells  of  his  charities,  which  are  many,  in 
spite  of  his  poverty.  There  they  come  from  Via 
Galvani,  carabinieri,  policemen,  prisoners,  and  the 
crowd.  One  of  the  solitary  onlookers,  moved  by 
curiosity,  approaches  another  spectator,  and 
inquired  what  has  occurred  in  the  district.  The 
other  is  in  complete  ignorance.  The  two  join 
company,  and  question  a  citizen,  who  appears 
to  have  had  enough  of  it;  to  be  about  to  leave. 
The  citizen  replies  that  up  there  at  a  villa  near 
Sant'  Anselmo  lives  a  holy  man,  who  is  adored 
by  the  whole  quarter,  because  he  visits  the  sick, 
healing  many,  and  talking  of  religion  better  than 
the  priests  themselves:  so  they  call  him  "the 
Saint";  or  rather,  "the  Saint  of  Jenne, "  because 
he  performed  many  miracles  in  a  town  in  the  hills, 
called  Jenne.  Why,  even  the  newspapers  talked 
of  him!  Last  night,  while  he  was  ministering  to  a 
poor  sick  man,  the  police  carried  him  off,  no  one 
knows  why.  It  was  reported  that  he  had  been 
set  free  again,  and  had  returned  to  the  villa, 
where  he  was  gardener,  but  at  the  villa  they 
deny  that  he  is  still  there,  and  will  give  no  explana- 
tion. The  people  are  excited,  they  want— 

A  tram  was  approaching.     Some  of  the  pas- 
sengers made  signs  to  the  people,  who  shouted 


394  The  Saint 

and  rushed  towards  the  next  stopping-place. 
The  citizen  forsook  his  two  questioners  and  also 
ran  towards  the  spot,  where  a  crowd  was  rapidly 
gathering  round  the  tram.  The  slow  train  of 
curious  spectators  moved  forward  in  the  wake 
of  the  crowd;  the  two  learned  that  the  tram  had 
brought  six  citizens  of  the  district,  who — motu 
proprio — had  been  to  see  the  Chief  of  Police. 
The  six  alighted  among  the  crowd,  which  was 
impatient  to  hear,  to  know.  They  did  not  seem 
happy,  and  answered  the  storm  of  questions  by 
recommending  the  people  to  be  calm.  They  prom- 
ised to  speak  presently,  to  tell  all,  but  not  there  in 
the  open  street.  Many  were  already  protesting, 
insults  trembled  on  many  lips.  He  who  appeared 
to  be  the  leader  of  the  six — a  tobacconist — had 
himself  raised  on  the  shoulders  of  his  colleagues, 
and  briefly  harangued  the  crowd. 

"We  have  brought  news,"  he  said.  "We  can 
assure  you  at  once  that  the  Saint  is  not  in  prison." 

Applause  burst  forth,  and  cries  of  viva  and 
bravo 

"  But  we  do  not  know  exactly  where  he  is, "  the 
orator  continued. 

Howls  and  hisses!  The  orator  was  much 
dismayed,  and,  after  a  weak  attempt  to  speak, 
bent  before  the  storm,  and  slid  down  from  his 
living  rostrum.  But  another  of  the  six,  braver 
and  more  daring,  climbed  up  and  retorted  with 
violence.  Then  the  howls  and  invectives  were 
redoubled.  "They  have  fooled  you!"  the  people 


Jeanne  395 

shouted.  "Idiots  that  you  are!  They  have  put 
him  in  prison!  In  prison!"  The  cry  spread; 
those  at  a  distance  heard  it,  who  had  heard  nothing 
else,  and  those  who  could  hear  neither  the  cry 
nor  anything  else  felt  the  dark,  magnetic  waves  of 
wrath  pierce  their  breasts.  Many  howled  "  Abbassol 
Down  with  him!"  without  knowing  whose  fall 
they  desired.  And  here  are  the  carabinieri1  s 
big  hats  again,  and  the  policemen.  In  vain  the 
six  protest,  shouting  themselves  hoarse;  the  yells 
of  "  Down  with  him! "  and  "  Death  to  him! "  drown 
their  voices.  A  delegate  orders  the  bugler  to 
sound  the  "disperse."  At  the  third  blast  there 
is  a  general  stampede.  The  deputation,  led 
by  the  tobacconist,  flees  also;  but  each  member 
manages  to  drag  after  him  in  his  flight  one  or 
other  of  the  less  violent  citizens,  promising 
further  information,  impossible  to  give  in  the 
open  street,  when  they  shall  have  reached  a  fitting 
place.  They  take  refuge  in  a  yard,  where  building 
material  is  stored,  and  which  is  surrounded  by  a 
wooden  fence.  Several  people  follow  them,  filter- 
ing, one  by  one,  through  the  opening  in  the  fence. 
Then  the  tobacconist,  conscious  that  he  hides 
in  his  breast  things  fit  to  cause  the  downfall  of 
the  world,  speaks,  in  the  presence  of  the  pyramid 
of  Caio  Cestio,  rising  there  indifferent,  and  waiting 
for  silence,  for  ruin,  for  the  coming  of  the  wild 
forests,  when  the  centuries  shall  have  rolled  away. 
The  tobacconist  speaks  in  measured  tones, 
surrounded  by  some  thirty  eager  faces.  He  says 


396  The  Saint 

the  Saint  of  Jenne  is  certainly  not  in  prison,  that 
they  do  not  know  where  he  is,  but  that  they  do, 
alas!  know  other  things!  Then  he  relates  the 
other  things !  If  he  had  told  them  to  the  mob  on 
leaving  the  tram,  they  would  have  torn  him  to 
pieces.  At  the  police-station  they  laugh  at  the 
Saint,  and  at  those  who  believe  in  him.  They 
say  he  has  a  mistress,  a  very  wealthy  lady;  that 
he  was  examined  by  the  Director-General  of 
Police  during  the  night  on  some  not  over-pleasant 
matters,  and  that  after  the  interview  he  drove 
away  from  the  ministry  with  his  mistress,  who 
was  waiting  for  him  in  a  carriage. 

"I  would  not  believe  this,"  the  tobacconist 
concluded,  "but  then — well,  now  let  him  tell  his 
story! " 

One  of  the  six,  a  man  who  kept  a  tavern  at 
Santa  Sabina,  immediately  began  to  relate  that 
his  wife  had  heard  a  carriage  stop  near  the  tavern, 
in  the  middle  of  the  night;  she  had  gone  to  the 
window,  and  had  seen  a  private  carriage,  with 
coachman  and  footman  in  tall  hats.  The  footman, 
standing  at  the  carriage  door,  was  helping  some 
one  to  alight.  The  person  who  got  out  had  then 
walked  past  the  window,  going  towards  Sant* 
Anselmo,  and  she  had  recognised  in  him  the 
Saint  of  Jenne.  The  tavern-keeper  added  that 
he  had  not  believed  she  had  really  recognised  him, 
for  there  was  no  moon,  and  it  had  rained  until 
after  eleven  o'  clock,  so  the  night  must  have  been 
quite  dark;  therefore  he  had  not  spoken.  But 


Jeanne  397 

when  he  had  heard  this  story  at  the  police-station, 
he  had  been  convinced.  Besides,  his  wife  could 
tell  something  more.  She  had  risen  at  six. 
Between  seven  and  eight  a  cab  had  passed,  going 
in  the  direction  of  Sant'  Anselmo.  Shortly 
afterwards  the  cab  had  returned,  and  this  time 
his  wife  had  seen  the  Saint  of  Jenne  inside  it. 
She  was  ready  to  swear  to  this. 

At  this  point  several  of  those  present  slipped 
out  of  the  enclosure,  and  hastened  to  whisper  the 
news  in  the  district.  Thus  it  happened  that 
while  the  tobacconist,  the  tavern-keeper,  and  their 
friends  were  still  in  the  enclosure,  people  began 
to  gather  on  the  road  to  Santa  Sabina,  and  a 
large  group  started  in  the  direction  of  the  tavern, 
two  policemen  following. 

They  entered  the  courtyard.  The  hostess  was 
gossiping  with  a  client,  under  the  pergola.  They 
questioned  her,  and  she  related  the  story  she  had 
told  her  husband.  They  cross-examined  her, 
wishing  to  know  this  and  that,  with  many  details. 
The  woman  ended  by  saying  she  did  not  remember 
anything  more.  She  would  go  and  fetch  some- 
thing to  drink,  something  to  refresh  their  throats 
and  her  memory.  Che!  Nonsense!  They  had 
not  come  to  drink,  and  they  told  her  so,  rudely. 
Two  railway  men,  sitting  at  a  table  under  the 
neighbouring  pergola,  were  annoyed  by  this  cross- 
examination.  One  of  them  called  the  hostess, 
and  said  to  her,  in  a  loud  voice : 

"What  is  it  they  want  to  know?     I  myself 


39s  The  Saint 

saw  the  man  they  are  after.  He  left  this  morning 
at  eight  o  'clock,  with  a  girl,  by  the  Pisa  line." 

The  crowd  turned  to  him,  questioning  him  now, 
and  he  swore,  angrily,  that  he  was  telling  the 
truth.  Their  Saint  had  started  at  eight  o  'clock, 
in  a  second-class  carriage,  with  a  handsome  fair 
girl,  who  was  very  well  known!  Then  the  people 
slowly  slunk  away.  When  they  were  all  gone, 
a  policeman  in  plain  clothes  approached  the 
railway  man,  and,  in  his  turn,  asked  him  if  he 
were  quite  sure  of  what  he  had  said. 

"I?"  the  man  replied.  "Sure?  Curse  them! 
I  know  nothing  about  it,  but  I  have  quieted  them, 
anyway;  and  they  may  go  to  the  devil  for  all  I 
care,  the  silly  fools!  Now  they  will  run  as  far  as 
Civitavecchia  at  least,  and  may  the  sea  swallow 
them  and  their  Saint  too! " 

"But  then,  where  has  he  gone?"  the  hostess 
exclaimed. 

"Go  and  look  for  him  in  the  cellar,"  the  man 
answered.  "The  flask  is  empty,  and  we  are  still 
thirsty." 

II 

"If  you  go  on  like  this,"  Carlino  exclaimed, 
hearing  Jeanne  order  her  maid  to  bring  her  hat, 
gloves,  and  fur,"  if  you  leave  me  alone  all  day  long, 
I  swear  to  you  we  will  return  to  Villa  Diedo. 
There,  at  least,  you  will  not  know  where  to 
go." 


Jeanne  399 

"I  have  arranged  to  send  Chieco  to  you,"  she 
said.  "  To-day  at  two  he  is  to  play  for  the  Queen, 
and  then  he  will  come  to  you.  Good-bye." 

And  she  went  out  without  giving  her  brother 
time  to  reply.  Her  coupe  was  waiting  for  her. 
She  gave  the  footman  the  address  of  the  Under- 
secretary of  the  Interior,  and  entered  the  carriage. 

It  was  Saturday.  For  several  days  Jeanne  had 
not  slept  and  had  eaten  little.  On  Tuesday 
evening  she  had  learned  from  Signora  Albacina 
of  the  plot  against  Piero,  and  how  her  husband, 
the  Under-Secretary  of  State,  had  been  invited 
by  the  Minister  to  join  him  at  the  Ministry  of  the 
Interior,  where  an  interview  was  to  take  place  with 
this  man  so  greatly  feared  and  hated  at  the  court 
of  the  Sovereign  Pontiff,  by  that  non-concessionist 
faction  which  wished  to  rule  at  the  Vatican.  She 
hastened  to  Noemi,  got  her  to  write  the  letter, 
and  then  telephoned  to  a  young  secretary,  her 
friend  and  admirer,  begging  him  to  come  to 
the  Grand  Hotel.  She  charged  him  to  find  some 
one  to  deliver  the  letter,  for  it  was  probably  too 
late  to  send  it  to  Villa  Mayda.  She  knew  also, 
for  Noemi  had  told  her  so,  that  Piero  was  feverish. 
She  determined  to  send  her  carriage  to  wait  for 
him  at  the  door  of  the  Ministry  of  the  Interior, 
with  the  footman  who  had  known  Maironi  at 
Villa  Diedo.  It  was  imprudent,  but  what  did  it 
matter?  Nothing  mattered  save  that  dear  life. 
The  announcement  of  the  death  of  Marchesa 
Nene  had  reached  her  that  very  evening  by  the 


400  The  Saint 

last  post.  She  wished  Piero  to  have  it  immedi- 
ately, that  he  might  at  once  pray  for  the  poor  dead 
woman.  It  was  strange,  but  nevertheless  true, 
that  she  could  merge  herself  in  him,  forget  herself, 
her  own  incredulity,  could  feel  that  which  he  with 
his  faith  must  feel  and  desire.  That  same  night 
the  footman  gave  her  an  account  of  his  errand. 
He  described  Maironi  as  a  ghost,  a  corpse.  She 
was  in  despair.  She  knew  of  the  conflict  between 
Professor  Mayda  and  his  daughter-in-law,  knew 
the  Professor  was  often  called  away  from  Rome; 
she  considered  him  a  great  surgeon,  but  not  a 
great  doctor;  she  believed  that  during  these 
absences  the  young  lady  would  take  no  care  of 
the  sick  man,  would  show  him  no  attentions. 
And  she  also  knew  about  the  three  days  the 
Director-General  had  allowed  him.  Oh!  it  was 
not  possible  to  leave  Piero  at  Villa  Mayda!  He 
must  be  removed!  A  hiding-place  must  be  found, 
where  neither  the  police  nor  the  carabinieri  would 
be  able  to  unearth  him;  where  he  would  be  well 
nursed,  have  every  attention,  and  be  in  the  hands 
of  a  skilful  physician. 

She  did  not  think  of  consulting  the  Selvas. 
Neither  did  she  communicate  to  Noemi  her 
intention  of  sending  the  carriage  to  the  Ministry 
of  the  Interior.  It  did  occur  to  her  to  propose 
that  they  take  Piero  to  their  house,  but  the  idea 
did  not  please  her;  the  terms  upon  which  Piero 
and  Giovanni  Selva  stood  were  too  well  known 
for  his  house  to  be  a  safe  hiding-place.  Within 


Jeanne  401 

this  prudent  consideration  lurked  a  secret  jealousy 
of  Noemi,  a  jealousy  of  a  special  nature,  neither 
violent  nor  burning,  for  Noemi  did  not  love 
Piero  with  a  love  like  hers,  but  perhaps — for  this 
very  reason — even  more  painful,  because  she 
understood  that  Piero  might  accept  Noemi 's 
mystic  sentiment ;  because  she  herself  was  incapa- 
ble of  such  a  sentiment,  and  because  she  had 
no  just  cause  of  complaint  against  her  friend,  no 
reason  to  reproach  her,  to  give  way  to  this  feeling. 
Another  possible  hiding-place  occurred  to  her, 
the  house  of  an  elderly  senator  with  whom  she  was 
acquainted,  and  who  had  been  an  intimate  friend 
of  her  father's.  He  was  very  religious,  and  full 
of  affectionate  admiration  for  Maironi.  She  held 
fast  to  this  idea.  But  if  she  intended  appealing 
to  the  Senator,  asking  of  him  no  less  a  favour  than 
to  take  into  his  house  a  sick  man  threatened  with 
arrest,  she  must  at  least  offer  some  explanation 
of  her  zeal.  She  did  not  figure  among  Piero 's 
disciples,  and  the  Senator  was  in  complete  igno- 
rance of  the  past.  But  he  knew  Noemi,  for  he 
was  the  old  gentleman  with  the  white  hair  and  the 
red  face  who  had  been  present  at  the  meeting 
in  Via  della  Vite,  and  Noemi  and  he  often  met 
in  the  "Catacombs."  Jeanne  wrote  to  him  at 
once,  stating  that  she  did  so  in  the  name  of  her 
friend  Noemi,  who  did  not  dare  to  come  forward. 
She  described  the  state  of  Maironi's  health,  and  the 
circumstances  which,  for  this  reason,  rendered 
it  advisable  to  remove  him  from  Villa  Mayda; 


402  The  Saint 

she  did  not,  however,  allude  to  the  danger  of 
arrest.  She  explained  her  friend's  request  to 
him,  and  added  that  the  invalid's  condition 
rendered  the  matter  most  urgent.  Should  the 
Senator  consent,  she  begged  him  to  give  the  bearer 
of  her  note  his  card,  with  a  word  or  two  of  invita- 
tion for  Maironi.  She  ended  by  asking  him  to 
grant  her  an  interview  at  the  Senate  sometime 
during  the  day,  and  by  requesting  him,  in  the 
meantime,  not  to  mention  the  matter  to  any 
one.  Then  she  wrote  to  Noemi,  informing  her 
of  what  she  had  done  in  her  name,  and  charging 
her  to  persuade  her  brother-in-law — in  case  the 
Senator  sent  his  card — to  take  a  carriage  and  carry 
the  invitation  to  Villa  Mayda  at  once.  He  must 
persuade  Maironi  to  accept  the  offer,  and  the 
Professor  to  allow  him  to  go,  laying  before  them 
the  political  reasons  for  taking  this  step.  When 
she  had  written  these  two  letters  she  had  an 
attack  of  prostration,  with  symptoms  of  such  a 
serious  nature  that  the  maid  was  alarmed.  She 
did  not,  however,  call  Carlino,  for  Jeanne  found 
strength  to  forbid  this  absolutely,  but  she  sent 
for  the  doctor  without  telling  her  mistress  she 
had  done  so.  The  doctor  himself  was  alarmed. 
During  his  visits  to  Carlino  he  had  noticed  that 
she  was  highly  strung,  but  he  had  never  before 
seen  her  in  such  a  condition.  She  was  livid, 
perfectly  stiff,  and  unable  to  speak.  The  attack 
lasted  until  six  o'  clock  in  the  morning,  the  first 
sign  of  improvement  being  when  Jeanne  inquired 


Jeanne  403 

what  time  it  was.  The  maid,  accustomed  to 
these  attacks  whispered  to  the  doctor:  "It  is 
passing,"  and  then  said  aloud: 

"Six  o'clock,  Signora." 

The  words  seemed  to  have  a  miraculous  effect. 
Jeanne,  whom  they  had  placed  on  the  bed  without 
undressing  her,  sat  up,  rather  dazed  it  is  true,  but 
quite  mistress  of  her  limbs  and  her  voice.  She 
inquired  for  Carlino  immediately  and  anxiously. 
Carlino  was  asleep;  he  had  not  heard  anything, 
and  knew  nothing  of  the  attack.  She  breathed 
more  freely,  and  said  to  the  doctor,  with  a  smile : 

"Now  I  shall  drive  you  away." 

She  was  not  satisfied  until  the  doctor  had 
departed.  Then  the  maid  prepared  to  undress 
her,  whereupon  Jeanne  first  called  her  a  stupid, 
and  then  apologised  almost  tearfully. 

"Oh!"  said  the  girl.  "You  wish  to  send  off 
those  letters  first!  Yes,  yes,  do  send  them  off, 
those  horrid  letters  which  did  you  so  much 
harm!" 

Jeanne  gave  her  a  kiss.  The  girl  adored  her, 
and  she  herself  was  fond  of  her,  treating  her 
sometimes  like  a  dear,  silly  little  sister. 

She  sealed  the  two  letters,  sent  the  maid  to  call 
the  footman,  and  gave  him  his  instructions.  He 

was  to  take  a  cab  and  drive  to  senator  's 

house,  40  Via  della  Polveriera,  present  the  letter 
addressed  to  the  Senator,  and  wait  for  an  answer. 
If  thev  told  him  there  was  no  answer  he  was  to 
return  to  the  Grand  H6tel  and  report;  but  if  the 


404  The  Saint 

Senator  gave  him  a  note,  he  was  to  take  it  to 
Casa  Selva,  in  Via  Arenula,  with  the  other  letter. 
An  hour  later  the  servant  returned,  and  reported 
that  he  had  executed  the  orders.  Two  hours 
later  a  note  from  the  Senator  announced  to 
Jeanne  that  Benedetto  was  already  at  his  house. 
Later  on  in  the  forenoon  Noemi  came.  Jeanne 
was  sleeping  at  last.  Noemi  waited  for  her  to 
awake,  and  then  told  her  that  her  brother-in-law 
had  gone  to  Villa  Mayda  without  delay.  He 
had  not  found  the  Professor,  who  had  left  for 
Naples  the  night  before  at  half -past  twelve. 
Maironi  had  accepted  the  Senator's  invitation 
at  once.  Knowing  her  temperament,  Giovanni 
had  judged  it  wiser  not  to  let  young  Signora 
Mayda  know  what  was  going  on.  He  had  found 
Maironi  very  weak,  not  feverish,  however,  so  he 
felt  sure  the  drive  from  the  Aventine  to  Via  della 
Polveriera  had  not  harmed  him.  Besides,  that 
kind  gardener,  his  eyes  full  of  tears,  had  wrapped 
him  up  warmly  in  a  heavy  blanket.  Perhaps 
Jeanne  was  mistaken,  but  it  seemed  to  her  that 
although  Noemi  displayed  much  interest  in  speak- 
ing of  Piero,  much  consideration  for  Jeanne's 
feelings,  she  spoke  to  her  in  a  tone  differing  from 
her  former  tone ;  as  a  friend  who  has  not  changed 
her  language,  but  whose  heart  has  become 
estranged.  Had  she  perhaps  wished  Piero  to  go 
to  Casa  Selva?  Probably. 

Ever  since  that  Wednesday  morning  she  had 
been    constantly    rushing    about.      At    Palazza 


Jeanne  405 

Madama  they  smiled  at  a  certain  much  respected 
colleague  with  white  hair  and  a  red  face,  who 
received  daily  visits  in  the  sola  dei  telegrammi 
from  a  lady,  both  handsome  and  fashionable. 
From  the  Senate  Jeanne  would  rush  to  the  Grand 
Hotel  to  give  Carlino  Jiis  medicine;  from  the 
Grand  Hotel  she  would  hasten  to  Via  Arenula 
to  give  or  receive  news,  or  to  Via  Tre  Pile  to  see 
the  Senator's  doctor,  who  was  attending  Piero. 
Errands  in  the  daytime,  and  tears  at  night! 
Tears  of  anguish  for  him  who  was  being  wasted 
by  a  hidden  incurable  disease,  and  again  consumed 
by  fever  after  four-and-twenty  hours  of  perfect 
freedom  from  it.  Other  tears  also,  other  bitter 
tears  for  the  accusations  which  had  been  spread 
among  Piero's  friends  and  disciples,  and  which 
not  all  of  them  had  rejected.  Noemi  told  her  these 
things.  The  accusations  concerning  the  presumed 
love  affairs  of  Piero  at  Jenne  were  not  credited, 
but  on  the  other  hand  there  were  many  who 
believed  he  had  secret  relations  with  a  married 
woman  in  Rome,  with  whose  name,  however,  no 
one  was  acquainted.  It  was  not  believed  that 
these  relations  were  of  the  guilty  nature  implied 
by  the  slanderers.  The  most  faithful — and  they 
were  few  in  number,  did  not  even  credit  the  exist- 
ence of  an  ideal  bond.  Once  when  Noemi  was 
relating  to  Jeanne  certain  defections,  certain  acts 
of  coldness,  she  suddenly  burst  into  tears.  Jeanne 
shuddered  and  frowned;  but  presently  she  saw 
In  her  friend's  eyes  a  look  so  full  of  despair,  of 


406  The  Saint 

supplication,  that,  passing  from  angry  jealousy 
to  an  impulse  of  unheard  of  affection,  she  opened 
her  arms  to  her,  and  clasped  her  to  her  heart. 
This  had  happened  on  the  Friday  evening  the  last 
of  the  three  days  by  the  end  of  which  Maironi  was 
to  leave  Rome.  Towards  noon  on  Saturday 
Jeanne  received  a  note  from  Signora  Albacina. 
The  wife  of  the  Under-Secretary  of  State  was 
expecting  Jeanne  at  her  own  home  at  two  o'clock. 
It  was  in  consequence  of  this  invitation  that 
Jeanne  drove  away  shortly  before  two,  regardless 
of  Carlino's  protests. 

As  soon  as  the  carriage  had  started  Jeanne 
raised  her  veil  and  took  the  note  from  her  muff, 
bending  her  lovely  pale  face  over  it,  gazing  at  it, 
but  not  reading  it  or  studying  the  sense,  clear 
and  simple  enough,  of  the  words  it  contained. 
She  was  wondering  what  Signora  Albacina  could 
have  to  tell  her;  imagining  all  sorts  of  impossible 
things.  Had  they  decided  to  leave  Maironi  alone? 
Or  had  the  police  discovered  his  dwelling-place 
and  were  they  about  to  arrest  him  ? 

"It  will  surely  be  the  worst!"  Jeanne  said  to 
herself.  "Ah,  Dio!" 

And,  forgetting  herself  for  a  moment,  she 
raised  her  muff  to  her  face,  and  pressed  it  to  her 
forehead.  Ah,  perhaps  not!  Perhaps  not!  Rais- 
ing her  head  quickly  she  looked  out  to  see  if  any 
one  had  noticed  her.  The  carriage  was  moving 
rapidly,  silently,  on  its  rubber  tires.  She  returned 


Jeanne  4°  7 

to  her  conjectures,  losing  herself  in  them  to  such 
an  extent  that  she  did  not  notice  that  the  carnage 
had  stopped  until  the  footman  opened  the  door. 

Signer  a  Albacina  met  her  on  the  stairs,  ready 
to  go  out.  Jeanne  must  come  with  her  at  once. 
At  once?  And  where  were  they  to  go?  Yes,  at 
once,  at  once,  and  in  Jeanne's  carriage,  because 
Signora  Albacina  could  not  have  her  own  at  the 
present  moment.  She  herself  gave  the  address 
to  the  coachman,  an  address  with  which  Jeanne 
was  not  familiar.  She  would  explain  on  the  way. 
The  carriage  started  off  once  more. 

Ah!  Signora  Albacina  had  forgotten  her  visit- 
ing-cards !  She  stopped  the  carnage,  but,  looking 
at  her  watch,  saw  they  would  lose  too  much 
time.  Dnve  on!  Jeanne  was  trembling  with 
impatience.  Well?  Well?  Where  were  they  go- 
ing? Ecco  !  They  were  going  to  see  Cardinal ! 

Jeanne  shuddered.  To  see  Cardinal ?  This 

Cardinal  had  the  reputation  of  being  one  of 
the  fiercest  non-concessionists.  Signora  Albacina 
really  must  see  him,  and  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later 
she  might  not  find  him.  Ah,  what  a  complicated 
affair!  She  could  not  explain  everything  in  a 
few  words.  The  object  of  the  visit  was,  of  course, 
still  that  for  which  Donna  Rosetta  Albacina  had 
laboured  for  three  days,  her  ostensible  reason  for 
so  doing  being  the  interest  she  took  in  the  ideas 
and  the  person  of  the  Saint  of  Jenne;  her  real 
reason  being  the  pleasure  she  took  in  managing 
an  intrigue,  without  scruples  of  conscience,  She 


408  The  Saint 

had  taken  a  fancy  to  Jeanne  at  Vena  di  Fonte  Alta, 
but  knew  nothing  of  her  past.  She  suspected  her 
of  being  in  love  with  the  Saint,  but  believed  hers 
to  be  a  mystic  love,  born  on  hearing  him  speak 
in  the  "Catacombs"  of  Via  della  Vite.  She  was 
convinced  that  Jeanne  had  had  a  hand  in  his 
disappearance  from  VlUa  Mayda,  that  she  knew 
his  hiding-place,  and  did  not  wish  to  disclose  it, 
having  promised  secrecy  to  his  friends.  But 
Jeanne  had  little  confidence  in  the  lady,  who 
seemed  to  her  frivolous,  and  who  was — this  she 
could  not  forget — the  wife  of  a  powerful  enemy, 
and  she  had  repeatedly  assured  her  that  she  did 
not  know.  Jeanne's  want  of  confidence  offended 
her  a  little  because  really  she,  Donna  Rosetta, 
wife  of  an  Excellency,  was  risking  much ;  but  after 
all  her  vanity  was  staked  on  this  game,  in  which 
the  winnings  were  the  permanent  freedom  of  the 
Saint  of  Jenne  in  Rome,  and  she  was  determined 
to  go  on  with  it. 

A  truly  complicated  affair  then!  In  the  mean- 
time, up  to  Friday  night  the  police  had  not  dis- 
covered the  Saint's  place  of  refuge.  Ah,  yes! 
they  believed  he  was  in  Rome.  Here  Donna 
Rosetta  paused,  hoping  Jeanne  would  speak. 
Not  a  word.  She  admitted,  continuing  her 
discourse,  that  her  husband  might  have  some 
suspicion  of  the  intrigue  which  she  was  concealing 
from  him,  that,  perhaps,  he  was  not  perfectly 
sincere  with  her.  This,  however,  was  not  likely. 
When  her  husband  was  not  speaking  quite 


Jeanne  409 

sincerely  to  her,  she,  Donna  Rosetta,  could  feel 
it  in  the  air.  As  to  that,  she  understood  the 
others  also.  Donna  Rosetta  was  for  once  mis- 
taken concerning  her  husband.  Ever  since  Wed- 
nesday night  they  had  known  at  Palazzo  Braschi 
where  Mairom  was,  but  he  would  not  tell  her  so, 
for  the  Under-Secretary  of  State  had  still  less 
confidence  in  his  wife  than  Jeanne  herself. 

But  the  most  important  news  came  from  the 
Vatican.  The  Pope  had  been  informed  of  what 
had  taken  place  in  Via  della  Marmorata,  and 
His  Holiness  was  much  irritated  against  the 
Government,  for  they  had  given  him  to  understand 
that  the  Government  had  lent  itself,  in  this 
matter,  to  the  hatred  of  the  Freemasons  against 
a  man  esteemed  by  the  Pope  himself.  There 
was  disunion  among  those  about  the  Pope.  The 
more  fanatical  of  the  non-concessionists,  opponents 
of  the  Cardinal  Secretary  of  State,  warmly 
supported  the  nomination  to  the  archepiscopal 
see  of  Turin,  so  displeasing  to  the  Quirinal,  and 
disapproved  of  the  secret  intrigues  with  the 
Italian  Government.  According  to  their  leader, 
who  was  the  very  eminent  personage  Donna 
Rosetta  now  proposed  calling  upon,  other  measures 
should  be  adopted  to  liberate  the  Holy  Father 
from  the  pestiferous  influence  of  a  rationalist 
varnished  over  with  mysticism.  These  things 
Donna  Rosetta  had  learned  from  the  Abbe 
Marinier,  who  smiled  knowingly  about  them  in 
her  salon.  It  was  inconceivable  how  many 


410    .  The  Saint 

poisonous  accusations  were  being  sown  broadcast 
with  the  greatest  cunning  by  the  non-concessionists 
all  united  against  this  poor  devil  of  a  mystical 
rationalist,  at  whom  the  Abb6  smiled  no  less 
than  at  his  enemies ! 

There  was  news  also  from  the  Ministry  of  the 
Interior.  What  news?  Donna  Rosetta  was  about 
to  answer  when  the  carriage  stopped  before  a 
large  convent.  The  Cardinal  lived  here.  Donna 
Rosetta  alighted  alone.  Jeanne's  presence  was 
not  necessary  at  this  interview;  indeed,  it  would 
be  inopportune.  It  would  be  necessary  some- 
where else.  Jeanne  waited  in  the  carriage, 
distressed  at  not  having  as  yet  discovered  the 
object  of  this  visit,  in  spite  of  Donna  Rosetta's 
flow  of  words.  Five  minutes,  ten  minutes,  passed. 
Jeanne  drew  herself  up  out  of  the  corner  where 
she  had  leaned,  absorbed  in  her  thoughts.  She 
watched  the  entrance  to  the  convent  to  see  if 
Donna  Rosetta  were  not  coming.  Rare  wayfarers, 
passing  slowly  along  the  quiet  street,  looked  into 
the  carriage.  It  seemed  to  Jeanne  almost  an 
offence  that  there  were  people  who  could  be  so 
calm.  Ah,  God!  The  doctor  had  promised  to 
send  her  a  bulletin  to  the  Grand  H6tel  at  seven 
o  'clock.  It  was  not  yet  three.  More  than  four 
hours  to  wait.  And  what  would  the  bulletin 
say?  She  bit  her  lips,  stifling  a  sob  in  her  throat. 
Ah!  here  is  Donna  Rosetta  at  last.  The  footman 
opens  the  door,  she  gives  him  an  order; 

"  Palazzo  Braschi!" 


Jeanne  41 1 

As  she  enters  the  carriage  she  casts  a  little  book 
at  her  feet,  and,  instead  of  speaking,  rubs  her  lips 
vehemently  with  her  perfumed  handkerchief. 
Finally  she  says,  with  a  shudder,  that  she  was 
obliged  to  kiss  the  Cardinal's  hand,  and  that  it 
was  anything  but  clean.  But  at  any  rate  the 
visit  was  successful.  Ah,  if  her  husband  only 
knew!  She  had  played  a  really  horrible  part. 
The  Cardinal  was  the  very  one  who  had  once  met 
Giovanni  Selva  in  the  library  of  Santa  Scolastica 
at  Subiaco,  and  had  assailed  him,  telling  him  he 
was  a  profaner  of  the  sacred  walls,  and  promising 
him  that  he  would  most  certainly  go  to  hell,  or 
even  further  down!  Donna  Rosetta  had  fanned 
his  fire,  in  order  to  break  up  the  secret  accord 
between  the  Vatican  and  Palazzo  Braschi.  She 
had  told  him  that  the  religious  haute  of  Turin 
much  desired  the  man  chosen  by  the  Vatican,  and 
obnoxious  to  the  Quirinal.  The  wily  Cardinal — 
whom  she  had  once  met  in  the  salon  of  a  French 
prelate — had  at  first  answered  only,  with  that 
accent  of  his,  neither  French  nor  Italian : 

"  C'  est  vous  qui  me  dites  fa?  C'  est  vous  qui  me 
dites  fa?" 

In  fact,  Donna  Rosetta  had  replied,  laughing: 

"  Oh  c*  est  enorme,  je  le  sais!" 

It  was  a  speech  which  might  cost  her  husband 
his  title  of  Excellency.  But  then  "the  most 
eminent  one"  had  as  good  as  promised  her  that 
the  desires  of  the  Turin  haute  should  be  satisfied, 

"Ce  sera  Im,  ce  sera  lui!" 


412  The  Saint 

Finally  he  had  said  to  her: 

"Comment  done,  madame,  avez-vous  6pous6  un 
ftancmafon?  Un  des  pires,  aussi!  Un  des  piresl 
Faites  lui  lire  cela  ! " 

And  he  had  given  her  a  little  book  on  the  doc- 
trines of  hell  and  the  inevitable  damnation  of 
Freemasons.  It  was  this  little  book  she  had 
cast  at  her  feet  on  entering  the  carriage. 

"  Fancy  my  husband  reading  that  rubbish! "  she 
said. 

But  what  was  all  this  to  Jeanne?  Jeanne  was 
impatient  to  hear  the  news  from  the  Ministry  of 
the  Interior.  And  now,  whom  were  they  going  to 
see?  The  Minister,  or  the  Under-Secretary  of 
State? 

They  were  going  to  see  the  Under-Secretary  of 
State,  going  to  see  Donna  Rosetta's  husband. 
Up  to  the  present  moment  Donna  Rosetta  had 
kept  silent  concerning  the  purpose  and  object 
of  this  visit,  in  order  that  Jeanne  might  not  have 
time  to  draw  back  or  to  prepare  herself  too  care- 
fully. The  Right  Honourable  Albacina  was  aware 
of  his  wife's  friendship  for  Signora  Dessalle  as 
well  as  of  Signora  Dessalle 's  friendship  for  the 
Selvas,  who  in  their  turn  were  so  devoted  to 
Maironi.  He  had  told  his  wife  that  he  wished  to 
speak  with  this  lady,  for  reasons  of  his  own, 
which  he  did  not  intend  to  reveal.  He  should 
expect  her  at  the  Ministry  of  the  Interior  soon 
after  three  o'clock.  She,  his  wife,  might  come 
with  her  if  she  liked,  but  she  could  not 


Jeanne  4T3 

be  present  at  the  interview.  Jeanne's  first 
movement  on  hearing  this  was  an  exclamation 
of  refusal.  Donna  Rosetta,  however,  had  little 
difficulty  in  persuading  her  to  change  her  mind. 
She  could  not  tell  what  projects  her  husband  had 
in  his  mind,  she  did  not  know ;  but  in  her  opinion 
it  would  be  madness  not  to  go,  not  to  listen, 
because  there  could  be  no  danger,  and  Jeanne 
need  not  commit  herself  in  any  way.  Jeanne 
yielded,  although  the  silence  Signora  Albacina 
had  maintained  up  to  the  last  moment  in  a 
matter  of  such  importance  made  her  tremble. 
She  felt  like  an  invalid  to  whom  after  much 
frivolous  talk  the  visit  of  a  celebrated  surgeon 
is  announced,  who  is  coming  to  examine  the 
patient. 

"  I  would  not  advise  you  to  go  alone, "  Signora 
Albacina  concluded,  smiling.  "The  ushers  saw 
many  things  in  the  times  of  certain  ministers 
and  their  deputies!  But  I  am  going  with  you, 
and  I  am  well  known  at  the  Ministry  of  the 
Interior!  Besides,  the  things  that  used  to  happen 
do  not  happen  now'  " 

The  Right  Honourable  Albacina  was  with  the 
Minister.  A  deputy,  who  had  just  been  requested 
to  enter,  recognised  Donna  Rosetta,  and  offered 
to  announce  her  to  her  husband.  He  had  only 
a  word  or  two  to  say,  and  would  come  out  at  once. 
Indeed,  in  about  five  minutes  the  deputy  re- 
appeared with  Albacina,  who  begged  Jeanne  to 


The  Saint 

enter  the  Minister's  room  with  him.  The  two 
ladies  had  not  expected  this,  and  Donna  Rosetta 
asked  her  husband  if  it  were  not  he  himself  who 
wished  to  speak  with  Jeanne.  His  Excellency 
did  not  allow  himself  to  be  disturbed  for  so  little ; 
he  dismissed  his  wife  in  a  summary  manner,  and 
hurried  Signora  Dessalle,  taken  by  surprise,  into 
the  Minister's  presence.  When  he  presented 
her  to  his  superior,  she  was  embarrassed  and  almost 
angry. 

The  Minister  received  her  with  the  most  respect- 
ful courtesy,  with  the  manner  of  a  stern  man, 
who  honours  woman,  but  keeps  her  at  a  distance. 
He  had  known  the  banker  Dessalle,  Jeanne's 
father,  and  immediately  spoke  of  him: 

"A  man,"  he  said,  "who  had  much  gold  in  his 
coffers,  but  the  purest  gold  of  all  in  his  conscience !" 
He  added  that  the  memory  of  this  man  had 
encouraged  him  to  speak  with  her  about  a  very 
delicate  matter.  When  he  had  spoken  those 
words,  or  rather  while  he  was  speaking  them, 
Jeanne  felt  sure  that  this  man  knew  the  past. 
She  could  not  refrain  from  glancing  stealthily 
at  the  Under-Secret ary.  She  read  the  same 
knowledge  in  his  eyes,  but  the  Under-Secretary's 
expression  troubled  her  and  irritated  her,  while 
the  Minister's  gaze  seemed  to  open  a  paternal 
heart  to  her.  The  Minister  introduced  the  topic 
by  speaking  of  Giovanni  Selva,  whom  he  freely 
praised.  He  expressed  regret  that  he  had  no 
personal  acquaintance  with  him.  He  said  he 


Jeanne  4J5 

was  aware  that  Jeanne  was  a  friend  of  the  Selvas. 
He  must  beg  her  to  persuade  her  friends  to  under- 
take a  most  important  mission  to  another  person. 
And  then  he  spoke  of  Maironi,  always  careful 
to  place  the  Selvas  between  Maironi  and  Jeanne, 
and  careful  to  avoid  allusion  to  any  possible 
direct  communication  between  them.  Jeanne 
listened,  striving  to  pay  close  attention  to  his 
words,  to  prepare  a  prudent  and  pertinent  answer, 
and  ever  conscious  of  the  discomfort  the  presence 
of  this  little  Mephistopheles  of  an  Albacina  caused 
her.  The  Minister's  discourse  did  not  prove  to  be 
what  she  had  expected ;  more  favourable  perhaps, 
but  more  embarrassing.  He  told  her  he  was  not 
speaking  as  the  Minister,  but  as  a  friend ;  that  he 
did  not  wish  to  hide  things  from  her ;  that  certain 
shadows  had  had  absolutely  no  substance;  that 
neither  ministers,  nor  magistrates,  nor  police- 
agents,  had  any  right  to  interfere  with  Signer 
Maironi,  who  was  perfectly  free  to  do  as  he  liked, 
and  had  nothing  to  fear  from  the  laws  of  his 
country.  He  was,  he  said,  convinced  of  the 
inanity  of  certain  accusations  which  had  been 
brought  against  him  out  of  religious  animosity. 
He  felt  much  sympathy  for  Signer  Maironi 's 
religious  views,  and  much  esteem  for  his  proposed 
apostolate,  but  Signer  Selva  must  really  convince 
him  of  the  wisdom  of  leaving  Rome  for  some  time 
at  least,  and  this  in  the  interest  of  his  apostolate 
itself;  for  his  religious  antagonists  in  Rome  were 
waging  war  against  him  so  violently,  dealing  him 


4i 6  The  Saint 

such  slanderous  blows,  that  very  soon  he  must 
inevitably  find  himself  entirely  without  disciples. 
Here  the  Minister,  thinking  to  please  Jeanne, 
assured  her  of  his  own  interest  in  religion.  What 
a  tragic  illusion !  she  thought,  bitterly.  He  trusted 
that  in  the  near  future  Signor  Maironi  would  be 
able  to  exert  his  influence  freely  in  a  very  high 
place;  there  were  many  signs  of  an  imminent 
transformation,  of  an  imminent  misfortune  to 
befall  the  non-concessionists ;  but,  for  the  moment, 
it  would  be  more  prudent  for  him  to  disappear. 
This  was  the  friendly  but  pressing  advice  which 
they  desired  to  convey  to  him  through  his  dis- 
tinguished friend.  Would  Signora  Dessalle  consent 
to  speak  to  that  distinguished  friend? 

Jeanne  trembled.  Could  she  trust  him?  Would 
she  be  revealing  things  which  perhaps  these  two 
did  not  know,  and  were  trying  to  find  out  from 
her?  Involuntarily  she  glanced  at  the  Under- 
secretary, and  her  eyes  spoke  so  plainly  that  he 
could  not  avoid  taking  a  decisive  step. 

"Signora,"  he  said,  with  his  habitual  sar- 
castic smile,  "  I  see  that  you  do  not  want  me 
here.  My  presence  is  not  necessary,  and  I  will  go, 
in  obedience  to  your  wish ;  it  is  a  just  wish,  and 
one  easily  explained." 

Jeanne  blushed,  and  he  noticed  it,  and  was 
pleased  at  having  succeeded  in  wounding  her  by 
the  covert  allusion  contained  in  his  last  words, 
and,  above  all,  in  his  malicious  smile. 

"Nevertheless,"  he  added,  still  smiling  in  the 


Jeanne  417 

same  way,  "  I  cannot  leave  without  assuring  you, 
on  my  honour,  that  my  wife  is  a  most  loyal  friend 
to  you;  that  she  has  never  uttered  an  indiscreet 
word  to  me  concerning  you,  as  I  myself  have 
never  been  guilty  of  indiscretion  when  discussing 
the  same  subject  with  my  wife." 

Having  thus  taken  his  revenge,  the  little  man 
departed,  leaving  Jeanne  greatly  agitated.  Good 
God!  Did  they  really  intend  to  oblige  her  to  speak 
to  Piero?  Did  they  suppose  she  saw  him?  Did 
these  men  also  believe  that  Piero 's  saintliness 
was  a  lie?  By  an  effort  she  composed  herself, 
seeking  help  in  the  Minister's  grave,  sad,  and 
respectful  gaze. 

"I  will  speak  to  Signor  Giovanni"  she  said. 
"But  I  believe,"  she  added  hesitatingly,  "that 
Signor  Maironi  is  ill,  and  not  able  to  travel." 

When  she  uttered  Maironi 's  name  flames 
rushed  to  her  face.  She  felt  them  far  hotter  than 
they  appeared,  but  the  Minister  noticed  them, 
and  came  to  her  aid. 

"Perhaps,  Signora, "  he  said,  "you  fear  to  com- 
promise your  friends  the  Selvas.  Do  not  fear 
this.  I  once  more  repeat  that  Signor  Maironi 
has  nothing  to  fear  from  any  quarter,  and  I  will 
add  that  we  know  all  about  him.  We  know  he  is  in 
Rome,  that  he  is  staying — but  only  for  a  few 
hours  longer — in  the  house  of  a  senator  in  Via 
della  Polveriera.  We  know  he  is  ill,  but  that  he 
is  able  to  travel.  You  may  even  tell  Signor  Selva 
that,  if  he  desire  it,  I  will  request  my  colleague, 


4i 8  The  Saint 

the  Minister  of  Public  Works,  to  place  a  reserved 
compartment  at  Signor  Maironi's  service." 

Jeanne,  trembling  violently,  was  about  to 
interrupt  him,  to  exclaim,  "Only  for  a  few 
hours  longer?"  but,  controlling  herself  with 
difficulty,  she  took  leave  of  the  Minister,  anxious 
to  hasten  to  the  Senate,  to  know! 

As  he  accompanied  her  to  the  door  the  Minister 
said: 

"Perhaps  Signor  Selva  is  unaware  that  the 
Senator  is  expecting  visitors,  relations  I  believe, 
and  so  will  not  be  able  to  keep  Signor  Maironi 
any  longer.  He  much  regrets  this.  What  a 
fine  man  he  is!  We  are  old  friends." 

Jeanne  shuddered,  fearing  to  have  guessed  the 
truth.  They  had  been  scheming  to  oblige  the 
Senator  to  send  Piero  away;  they  were  indeed 
pushing  him  out  of  Rome!  But  was  it  possible 
the  Senator  had  allowed  himself  to  be  persuaded? 
To  drive  out  an  invalid  in  his  condition!  She 
entered  her  coupt  and  drove  to  Palazza  Madama, 
where  she  inquired  for  the  Senator.  He  was  not 
there.  The  usher  who  gave  her  this  answer 
appeared  rather  embarrassed.  Was  he  acting 
under  orders?  Not  daring  to  insist,  she  left  her 
card,  with  a  request  that  the  Senator  would  call 
at  the  Grand  H6tel  before  dinner.  She  herself 
started  for  the  Grand  H6tel,  her  heart  quivering 
and  groaning,  the  point  of  her  shoe  beating  upon 
the  little  book  against  Freemasonry,  which 


Jeanne  4i9 

Donna  Rosetta  had  forgotten.  She  would  have 
liked  the  two  sorrels  to  fly.  It  was  a  quarter  to 
five,  and  at  half -past  four  it  was  daily  her  duty 
to  prepare  Carlino's  medicine. 


Ill 


Half  an  hour  before  she  reached  the  Grand  H6tel 
Giovanni  and  Maria  Selva  arrived  there.  Young 
di  Leyni  arrived  at  the  same  time.  He  also  had 
come  to  inquire  for  Signora  Dessalle,  and  expressed 
his  satisfaction  at  this  meeting;  but  he  was  far 
from  cheerful. 

Upon  learning  that  Signora  Dessalle  was  out, 
the  three  visitors  asked  to  be  allowed  to  wait  for 
her  in  the  parlour.  The  Selvas  seemed  even  less 
cheerful  than  di  Leynl. 

After  a  brief  silence  Maria  observed  that  it  was 
already  a  quarter  past  four,  therefore  Jeanne 
would  not  be  long,  for  every  day  at  half-past  four 
she  was  engaged  with  her  brother.  Di  Leynl 
begged  that  they  would  present  him  to  her  on  her 
arrival.  He  had  a  message  for  her,  but  was  not 
acquainted  with  her.  The  message,  indeed,  con- 
cerned all  of  Benedetto's  friends,  therefore  con- 
cerned the  Selvas  also.  Maria  trembled. 

"A  message  from  him?"  she  asked  eagerly. 
"A  message  from  Benedetto?" 

Di  Leyni  looked  at  her,  astonished  at  her 
eagerness,  and  hesitated  slightly  before  answering. 
No,  it  was  not  from  Benedetto,  but  it  concerned 


420  The  Saint 

him.  As  Signora  Dessalle  might  come  in  at  any 
moment,  and  as  the  matter  was  rather  lengthy, 
rather  complicated,  he  judged  it  as  well  not  to 
begin  discussing  it  until  she  arrived.  Then  he 
inquired,  innocently,  how  this  Signora  Dessalle 
had  come  to  take  such  an  interest  in  Benedetto's 
fate.  She  had  never  been  seen  at  the  meetings 
in  Via  della  Vite,  and  he  had  never  even  heard 
her  name  mentioned. 

"But  what  makes  you  think  she  does  take  an 
interest  in  his  fate?"  said  Maria. 

"Because,  you  see,"  di  Leynl  answered,  "I 
have  a  message  for  her  which  is  about  him." 

Di  Leynl,  whose  devotion  to  Benedetto  was 
boundless,  had  never  credited  the  scandalous 
rumours  which  had  been  spread  concerning  him; 
he  had  repulsed  them  with  passionate  indignation. 
He  would  not  admit  that  his  master  could  habour 
either  a  guilty  or  an  ideal  love.  In  asking  that 
question,  he  could  have  had  no  idea  that  a  relation 
of  a  shameful  nature  had  existed  between  Jeanne 
and  Benedetto.  Giovanni  changed  the  subject 
by  remarking  that  Signora  Dessalle  might  not 
come  in  for  some  time,  and  that,  therefore,  di 
Leynl  had  better  speak. 

Di  Leynl  spoke. 

He  had  been  to  see  Benedetto.  On  reaching 
Via  della  Polveriera  from  San  Pietro  in  Vincoli, 
he  had  recognised  two  policemen  in  plain  clothes, 
who  were  walking  up  and  down.  He  might  have 
been  mistaken,  or  this  might  have  happened  by 


Jeanne  421 

chance.  At  any  rate  it  was  something  to  take 
note  of.  As  soon  as  he  entered  the  house  the 
Senator  had  sent  to  beg  him  to  come  into  his  study. 
There,  speaking  with  much  affability  but  with 
manifest  embarrassment,  he  had  told  him  that  he 
was  glad  to  see  a  friend  of  his  dear  guest's  at  that 
special  moment;  that  Benedetto  was  fortunately 
free  from  fever,  and,  in  his  opinion,  on  the  road 
to  recovery.  A  telegram,  he  said,  had  just 
announced  to  him  that  his  old  sister  was  to  arrive 
very  shortly,  that  his  apartment  contained  only 
one  bedroom  besides  his  own  and  the  one  occupied 
by  the  servant ;  that  he  could  not  possibly  send  his 
sister  to  an  hotel,  neither  could  he  telegraph  her 
to  delay  her  visit,  for  she  had  already  started; 
therefore — 

The  Senator  had  allowed  di  Leyni  to  complete 
the  sentence  for  himself.  Di  Leyni  who,  with  a 
few  other  faithful  ones,  was  aware  of  the  secret 
plots  against  Benedetto,  was  amazed.  What 
should  he  answer?  That  the  Senator  alone  was 
master  in  his  own  house?  That  was,  perhaps, 
the  only  answer  possible.  Di  Leyni  had  ventured, 
with  much  circumspection,  to  express  his  fear 
that  a  move  might  prove  fatal  to  the  sick  man. 
The  Senator  was  convinced  of  the  contrary.  He 
believed  a  change  of  air  would  greatly  benefit 
him.  He  had  not  as  yet  been  able  to  consult  the 
doctor,  but  he  had  no  doubt  of  this.  He  suggested 
Sorrento.  As  di  Leyni  did  not  know  what  to  say, 
and  did  not  move,  the  Senator  had  dismissed  him, 


422  The  Saint 

begging  him  to  go,  in  his  name,  to  the  Grand  H6tel, 
and  see  Signora  Dessalle,  at  whose  request  he  had 
received  Benedetto  into  his  house,  and  desire 
her  to  arrange  matters,  for  his  sister  would  arrive 
that  same  evening  before  eleven  o'clock. 

Then  di  Leyni  had  gone  in  to  see  Benedetto. 
Good  God!  in  what  a  state  he  had  found  him! 
Without  fever,  perhaps,  but  with  the  appearance 
of  a  dying  man. 

The  young  man's  eyes  were  full  of  tears  as  he 
told  of  it.  Benedetto  did  not  know  he  would  be 
obliged  to  leave.  He  had  spoken  of  it  to  him  as 
of  something  not  yet  certain  but  possible.  Ben- 
edetto had  looked  at  him  in  silence,  as  if  to  read 
in  his  soul,  and  then  had  questioned,  with  a  smile : 
"Must  I  go  to  prison?"  Then  di  Leyni  repented 
of  not  having  at  once  told  the  whole  truth  to  a  man 
so  strong  and  serene  in  God,  and  he  repeated  to 
him  all  the  Senator  had  said. 

"He  took  my  hand,  "  the  young  man  continued, 
his  voice  broken  with  emotion,  "and  while  he  held 
it  and  caressed  it,  he  said  these  precise  words: 
'  I  will  not  leave  Rome.  Do  you  wish  me  to  come 
and  die  in  your  house?'  I  was  so  deeply  moved 
that  I  had  not  the  strength  to  answer,  for  indeed 
I  am  not  sure  that  he  is  not  really  in  danger  of 
arrest ;  perhaps  this  incredible  act  of  the  Senator's 
may  be  a  pretext  to  prevent  the  arrest  taking 
place  in  his  house.  And  how  could  he  be  carried 
to  another  place  of  safety,  with  the  police  watching 
for  him?  I  embraced  him,  murmured  a  few 


Jeanne  423 

meaningless  words,  and  hastened  away;  hastened 
here  to  speak  to  this  Signora  Dessalle.  Perhaps 
she  will  come  and  persuade  the  Senator." 

The  Selvas  had  often  interrupted  di  Leyni  with 
exclamations  of  surprise  and  indignation.  When 
he  had  finished  his  recital,  they  were  speechless 
and  amazed.  The  first  to  break  the  silence  was 
Signora  Maria. 

"If  Jeanne  would  only  come!"  she  said  softly. 

She  made  an  imperceptible  sign  to  her  husband, 
and  proposed  that  they  both  go  and  see  if  by  any 
chance  she  had  returned  and  they  had  not  been 
informed.  While  they  were  crossing  the  Jardin 
d'Hiver  she  said  she  thought  di  Leyni  should  be 
told  who  Jeanne  really  was.  Signora  Dessalle 
had  not  yet  returned.  Giovanni  took  the  young 
man  aside,  and  spoke  to  him  in  a  low  tone.  Maria, 
who  was  watching  him,  saw  him  tremble  and 
turn  pale,  his  eyes  dilate;  saw  him,  in  his  turn, 
speak,  asking  something.  Jeanne  Dessalle  entered 
hurriedly,  smiling. 

The  porter  had  given  her  a  note  from  a  doctor. 
It  said : 

"I  do  not  expect  to  be  able  to  come  back. 
This  morning  he  was  without  fever.  Let  us  hope 
the  attack  may  not  return." 

Jeanne  saw  at  once  that  there  was  no  question 
of  removing  the  patient.  She  embraced  Maria 
and  shook  hands  with  Selva,  who  presented  di 
Leyni.  Then  she  apologised  to  them  all  because 
she  was  obliged  to  leave  them  for  five  minutes. 


424  The  Saint 

Her  brother  was  waiting  for  her.  As  soon  as  she 
had  left  the  room,  promising  to  return  at  once, 
di  Leynl  drew  Selva  aside  once  more.  Maria 
saw  the  look  of  anxiety  he  had  worn  before 
reappear  on  his  face,  saw  that  he  was  asking 
many  questions,  and  that  her  husband's  answers 
seemed  to  be  calming  him.  At  last  she  saw  her 
husband  place  his  hands  on  the  young  man's 
shoulders,  and  say  something  to  him,  she  believed 
she  knew  what;  it  was  something  secret,  not  yet 
known  to  Jeanne.  She  saw  emotion  and  profound 
reverence  in  the  young  man's  eyes. 

A  waiter  came  to  say  that  Signora  Dessalle 
was  waiting  for  them  in  her  apartment.  There 
was  much  movement  in  the  hotel.  The  rustling 
of  long  skirts,  the  muffled  beat  of  footsteps 
mingled  on  the  carpets  of  the  corridors ;  subdued 
foreign  voices,  gay,  plaintive,  flattering  or  indiffer- 
ent, came  and  went;  the  lifts  were  being  taken 
by  storm.  Each  member  of  the  little  silent  group 
experienced  the  same  bitter  sense  of  all  this 
indifferent  worldliness.  Jeanne  was  in  her  salon 
next  to  Carlino's  room,  where  he  was  accompany- 
ing Chieco's  violoncello  on  the  piano.  She  came 
forward  to  meet  her  friends  with  a  smile  that, 
combined  with  the  music — antique  Italian  music, 
simple  and  peaceful — made  their  hearts  ache. 
She  seemed  rather  surprised  to  see  di  Leyni,  from 
whom  she  had  not  expected  a  visit.  She  had 
really  asked  them  to  come  up  stairs  that  they 
might  speak  more  freely,  but  she  told  them  she 


Jeanne  425 

had  wished  to  offer  them  a  little  of  Chieco's  music, 
and  now  he  would  not  allow  the  door  to  remain 
open.  However,  one  could  hear  very  well  with 
the  door  closed.  Giovanni  at  once  informed 
her  that  the  Cavaliere  di  Leyni  had  a  message 
for  her  from  the  Senator. 

"  While  you  are  speaking  together  we  will  listen 
to  the  music, "  he  said. 

He  and  his  wife  stepped  aside  from  Jeanne, 
who  had  turned  pale,  and  who,  in  spite  of  her 
violent  effort  to  do  so,  could  not  entirely  conceal 
her  impatience  to  hear  this  message.  Di  Leynl 
sat  down  beside  her,  and  began  to  speak  in  a 
low  tone. 

The  violoncello  and  the  piano  were  jesting 
together  on  a  pastoral  theme,  full  of  caresses 
and  of  simple  and  lively  tenderness.  Maria 
could  not  refrain  from  murmuring,  "  Dio!  Poor 
woman!"  and  her  husband  could  not  refrain  from 
following,  on  Jeanne's  face,  the  painful  words 
her  companion  was  speaking  to  the  sound  of  this 
tender  and  lively  music.  He  watched  the  young 
man's  face  also,  who,  while  speaking  to  the  lady, 
often  looked  towards  him  as  if  to  express  his 
grief  and  to  ask  for  advice.  Jeanne  listened  to 
him,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground.  When  he 
had  finished  she  raised  to  the  Selvas  those  great 
eyes  of  hers,  so  full  of  pitiful  distress.  She  looked 
from  one  to  the  other  saying  mutely,  involuntarily, 
"  You  know?"  The  sad  eyes  of  both  husband  and 
wife  replied,  "Yes,  we  know!"  There  came 


426  The  Saint 

a  loud  outburst  of  joyous  music.  Maria  took 
advantage  of  this  to  murmur  to  her  husband : 

"  Do  you  think  he  told  her  what  he  said  about 
wishing  to  die  in  Rome?" 

Her  husband  answered  that  it  would  be  best  for 
her  to  know,  that  he  hoped  he  had  told  her. 
Jeanne  let  her  gaze  rest  on  the  door  whence  came 
the  sound  of  the  music.  She  waited  a  moment, 
and  then  signed  to  the  Selvas  to  approach.  She 
said,  her  voice  quite  firm,  that  she  felt  the  Senator 
should  have  informed  them,  that  she  did  not 
understand  why  he  had  appealed  to  her.  They 
must  now  arrange  what  was  to  be  done. 

The  music  ceased.  They  could  hear  Carlino 
and  Chieco  talking.  Di  Leyni,  who  occupied 
bachelor's  quarters  on  the  Sant'  Onofrio  hillside, 
offered  them  eagerly.  But  what  about  the  war- 
rant? What  if  they  were  only  waiting  to  serve 
it  until  Benedetto  should  have  left  the  Senator's 
house? 

Jeanne  calmly  denied  the  possibility  of  an  arrest. 
The  Selvas  looked  at  her,  full  of  admiration 
for  that  forced  calm.  For  some  time  past  Jeanne 
had  suspected  that  they  were  acquainted  with 
Benedetto's  real  name.  Was  it  then  possible 
that  Noemi  (though,  indeed,  she  had  admonished 
her  often  enough)  should  never  have  allowed  a 
word  to  escape  her?  A  moment  before,  when 
they  had  exchanged  those  silent  and  sorrowful 
glances,  the  Selvas  and  Jeanne  had  understood 
one  another.  Giovanni  and  his  wife  saw  that 


Jeanne  427 

if  Jeanne  were  thus  heroically  controlling  herself 
it  was  not  on  their  account,  but  on  di  Leyni's 
account.  And  now,  after  Giovanni's  words,  di 
Leyni  himself  knew  everything!  It  seemed  to 
them  they  had  almost  been  guilty  of  treason. 

They  were  convinced  that  Jeanne  must  have 
reasons  of  which  they  were  ignorant  for  saying 
she  did  not  believe  in  the  possibility  of  an  arrest. 
They  remarked  that  Benedetto  might  now  accept 
their  proffered  hospitality.  Jeanne  was  quick  to 
remind  them  that  Benedetto  himself  had  expressed 
a  desire,  and  that  the  Sant'  Onofrio  hillside 
would  seem  more  suitable  than  the  Via  Arenula 
as  the  residence  of  an  invalid  who  needed  quiet. 
Nevertheless,  it  was  her  opinion  that  they  could 
not  possibly  allow  him  to  be  moved  without  the 
doctor's  express  permission.  All  were  of  one 
mind  on  this  point.  The  Selvas  charged  di  Leyni 
to  inform  the  Senator  that  Benedetto's  friends 
would  find  him  another  place  of  refuge,  but 
only  on  condition  that  the  physician  in  attendance 
gave  a  written  permission  to  remove  him.  While 
Giovanni  was  talking,  a  noisy  allegro  burst  from 
the  piano  in  the  next  room,  an  allegro  all  sobs 
and  cries.  He  ceased  speaking,  not  wishing  to 
raise  his  voice  too  high,  and  let  the  rush  of  sad 
music  pass.  And  sad  was  the  word  which  his 
eyes  and  the  young  man's  eyes  uttered  to  each 
other,  while  their  lips  were  silent. 

Di  Leyni  had  no  time  to  lose,  and  so  took  his 


428  The  Saint 

leave.  He  disliked  going  alone;  he  could  have 
wished  to  appear  before  the  Senator  with  some 
one  of  Benedetto's  friends  whose  presence  would 
intimidate  him  a  little,  for  his  conduct  was 
inexplicable. 

Giovanni  muttered  something  about  the  vice- 
presidency  of  the  Senate,  to  which  that  old  man 
aspired,  and  which  he  would  not  obtain.  It  is  a 
bitter  grief  to  discover  such  sordid  motives 
where  they  are  least  expected!  Maria  rose  and 
offered  to  accompany  di  Leyni. 

"You  will  stay?"  Jeanne  asked  Giovanni 
anxiously.  Her  tone  said,  "You  must  stay!" 
Selva  said  that  he  had,  indeed,  intended  to  remain, 
and  the  expression  of  his  voice,  of  his  face,  was 
such  as  to  acquaint  Jeanne  with  the  fact  that 
sad  words,  not  yet  spoken,  were  weighing  on  his 
heart.  Oh!  thought  Jeanne,  what  if  Chieco 
should  leave  now,  and  Carlino  call?  Then  it 
would  not  be  possible  for  us  to  speak  together! 
For  she  also  had  something  to  say  to  Selva.  She 
must  repeat  the  Minister's  discourse  to  him. 
The  two  musicians  had  once  more  ceased  playing, 
and  were  talking.  Jeanne  knocked  softly  on 
the  door,  and  blew  a  few  gay  words  against  it : 

"Bravi!    Have  you  finished  already?" 

"No,  pretty  one,"  Chieco  answered  from  the 
other  side.  "So  much  the  worse  for  you  if  you 
are  bored! " 

He  sent  forth  a  fiendish  whistle,  fit  to  pierce 
a  hole  in  the  door.  Jeanne  clapped  her  hands. 


Jeanne  429 

The  piano  and  the  violoncello  attacked  a  solemn 
andante. 

She  turned  to  Selva,  who  was  coming  in  again 
after  having  accompanied  his  wife  into  the 
corridor,  in  order  to  tell  her  to  telegraph  to 
Don  Clemente.  She  went  towards  him  with 
clasped  hands,  her  eyes  full  of  tears. 

"Selva,"  she  murmured  in  a  stifled  voice, 
"you  know  everything  now.  I  cannot  hide  my 
feelings  from  you.  Is  there  something  worse? 
Tell  me  the  truth." 

Selva  took  her  hands  and  pressed  them  in 
silence,  while  the  violoncello  answered  for  him, 
bitterly  and  sadly:  "Weep,  weep,  for  there  is 
no  fate  like  thy  fate  of  love  and  of  grief."  He 
pressed  the  poor  icy  hands,  unable  to  speak. 
He  saw  clearly  di  Leyni  had  not  dared  to  repeat 
the  terrible  words  to  her —  "  I  will  come  and  die 
in  your  house."  It  was  his  lot  to  deal  her  the 
first  blow. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  gently  and  paternally, 
"did  he  not  tell  you  at  the  Sacro  Speco  that  he 
would  call  you  to  him  in  a  solemn  hour?  The 
hour  is  come,  he  calls  you." 

Jeanne  started  violently.  She  did  not  believe 
she  had  heard  aright. 

"Oh,  how  is  this?     No!"  she  exclaimed. 

Then,  as  Selva  continued  silent,  with  the 
same  pity  in  his  eyes,  a  flash  shot  through  her 
heart.  "Ah!"  she  cried,  and  her  whole  being 
went  out  in  mute  and  agonized  questioning. 


430  The  Saint 

Selva  pressed  her  hands  still  harder,  his  tightly 
closed  lips  twitched,  and  a  suppressed  sob  wrung 
his  breast.  She  said  never  a  word,  but  would 
have  fallen  had  not  his  hands  upheld  her.  He 
supported  her,  and  then  led  her  to  a  seat. 

"At  once?"  she  said.  "At  once?  Is  it 
imminent?" 

"No,  no.  He  wishes  to  see  you  to-morrow. 
He  believes  it  will  be  to-morrow,  but  he  may  be 
mistaken.  Let  us  hope  he  is  mistaken." 

"My  God,  Selva!  But  the  doctor  writes  that 
he  has  no  fever!  " 

Selva  made  the  gesture  of  one  who  is  obliged  to 
admit  the  presence  of  a  misfortune  without 
understanding  it.  The  music  was  silent,  he 
spoke  in  subdued  tones.  Benedetto  had  written 
to  him.  The  doctor  had  found  him  free  from 
fever,  but  he  himself  foresaw  a  fresh  attack,  after 
which  the  end  would  come.  God  was  granting 
him  the  blessing  of  a  sweet  and  peaceful  respite. 
He  had  a  favour  to  ask  of  Selva.  He  was  aware 
that  Signora  Dessalle,  a  friend  of  Signorina 
Noemi's,  was  in  Rome.  He  had  promised  this 
lady,  before  an  altar  at  the  Sacro  Speco,  to  call  her 
to  him  before  his  death,  that  they  might  speak 
together.  Probably  Signorina  Noemi  would  be 
able  to  explain  the  reason  of  this  to  him. 

Selva  paused;  he  had  the  letter  in  his  pocket, 
and  began  searching  for  it.  Jeanne  saw  his 
movement,  and  was  seized  with  convulsive 
shuddering. 


Jeanne  431 

"No,  no,"  said  he.  "I  repeat  he  may  be 
mistaken." 

He  waited  for  her  to  become  calm,  and  then, 
instead  of  taking  the  letter  from  his  pocket,  he 
repeated  the  last  part  of  it  by  heart : 

"The  attack  will  return  this  evening  or  in  the 
night ;  to-morrow  night,  or  the  day  after  to-morrow 
in  the  morning,  the  end  will  come.  I  wish  to  see 
Signora  Dessalle  to-morrow,  to  speak  a  word  to 
her  in  the  name  of  the  Lord,  to  whom  I  am  going. 
I  asked  the  Senator,  a  few  moments  ago,  to  arrange 
this  meeting  for  me,  but  he  found  excuses  for  not 
doing  so.  Therefore  I  appeal  to  you." 

Jeanne  had  covered  her  face  with  her  hands 
and  was  speechless.  Selva  thought  it  best  to  say 
something  hopeful.  Perhaps  the  attack  would  not 
return;  perhaps  the  fever  was  checked.  She 
shook  her  head  violently,  and  he  did  not  dare  to 
insist.  Suddenly  she  fancied  she  heard  Chieco 
saying  good-bye.  She  shuddered,  and  removed 
her  hands  from  her  face,  which  was  ghostly, 
under  her  disordered  hair.  But,  instead,  the 
first  gay  notes  of  the  Curricolo  Napoletano  burst 
forth;  that  was  the  piece  Chieco  always  played 
last.  She  started  to  her  feet,  and  spoke  con- 
vulsively, tearlessly. 

"  Selva,  I  know  Piero  is  dying,  I  know  he  is  not 
mistaken.  If  possible  make  him  stay  where  he 
is.  Bring  his  friends  to  him — swear  to  me  that 
you  will  bring  his  friends  to  him,  that  he  may 
have  that  comfort!  Tell  them  about  me,  all 


43 2  The  Saint 

about  me;  tell  them  the  truth.  Tell  them  how 
pure,  how  holy  Piero  really  is!  I  will  wait  here. 
1  will  not  stir.  When  he  calls  me  I  will  come, 
as  you  shall  direct  me.  I  am  strong.  See,  I  am 
no  longer  crying!  Telegraph  to  Don  Clemente 
that  his  disciple  is  dying,  and  that  he  must  come. 
Let  us  do  all  we  can.  It  is  late.  Go  now.  You, 
'in  one  way  or  another,  will  see  Piero  to-night. 

Tell  him " 

At  this  point  a  spasm  of  grief  checked  her 
words.  Chieco  came  in,  whistling,  and  beating 
one  hand  against  the  other  in  his  own  peculiar 
fashion.  Selva  slipped  out  through  the  door. 
Jeanne  ran  after  him  into  the  dark  corridor. 
She  seized  one  of  his  hands  and  pressed  a  wild 
kiss  upon  it. 

A  few  hours  later,  towards  ten  o'  clock,  Jeanne 
was  reading  the  Figaro  to  Carlino,  who  was  buried 
in  an  easy-chair,  his  legs  enveloped  in  a  rug,  a 
large  cup  of  milk,  which  he  was  holding  with  both 
hands,  resting  upon  his  knee.  Jeanne  read  so 
badly,  was  so  heedless  of  commas  and  of  full-stops, 
that  her  brother  was  continually  interrupting  her, 
and  was  growing  impatient.  She  had  been 
reading  about  five  minutes  when  her  maid  entered 
and  announced  that  Signorina  Noemi  was  there. 
Jeanne  threw  the  paper  aside,  and  was  out  of  the 
room  in  a  flash.  Noemi  related  hurriedly,  stand- 
ing the  while — for  she  was  anxious  to  leave  again 
on  account  of  the  lateness  of  the  hour — that  while 


Jeanne  433 

Giovanni  and  Maria  were  at  the  Grand  H6tel, 
Professor  Mayda,  just  back  from  Naples,  had 
come  to  their  house,  perfectly  furious,  and 
demanding  an  explanation  of  Benedetto's  dis- 
appearance from  his  house.  Then  she  had  told 
him  everything,  and  Mayda  had  gone  directly  to 
Via  della  Polveriera.  There  he  had  found  Maria, 
diLeyni.the  Senator,  and  the  doctor,  whose  opinion 
was  that  Benedetto  could  be  moved.  A  discussion 
had  arisen  between  Mayda  and  the  doctor  on 
this  point,  to  which  Mayda  had  finally  put  an  end 
by  saying:  "Well,  rather  than  leave  him  here, 
I  will  carry  him  away  again  myself!"  In  an 
hour's  time  he  was  back  again  with  a  carriage 
full  of  pillows  and  rugs,  and  had  indeed  carried 
him  off.  It  seemed  the  journey  had  been  accom- 
plished successfully. 

When  she  had  heard  the  story,  Jeanne  embraced 
her  friend  in  silence,  clasping  her  close.  And  her 
friend,  trembling  and  full  of  tears,  whispered  to 
her: 

"Listen,  Jeanne!  Will  you  pray  for  to- 
morrow?" 

"  Yes, "  Jeanne  replied. 

She  was  silent,  struggling  against  a  rising 
tempest  of  tears.  When  she  had  conquered  it 
she  went  on,  in  a  low  tone : 

"  I  do  not  know  how  to  pray  to  God.  Do  you 
know  to  whom  I  pray?  To  Don  Giuseppe  Flores." 

Noemi  buried  her  face  on  Jeanne's  shoulder, 
and  said  in  a  stifled  voice: 


434  The  Saint 

"  How  I  wish  that,  afterwards,  he  might  see  us 
working  together  for  his  faith." 

Jeanne  did  not  answer,  and  Noemi  went  away. 

Jeanne  returned  to  Carlino  to  continue  the 
reading,  but  he  received  her  roughly.  He  declared 
he  was  tired  of  this  sort  of  life,  and  that  she 
was  to  prepare  to  leave  with  him  to-morrow  for 
Naples.  Jeanne  replied  that  this  was  folly,  and  that 
she  would  not  leave.  Then  Carlino  fired  up,  caught 
her  wrists,  and  shook  her  so  that  he  really  hurt  her. 
She  must  absolutely  go!  Now  that  she  tried  to 
resist,  the  moment  had  come  to  tell  her  that  he 
was  acquainted  with  the  reasons  of  her  windings 
and  twistings,  of  her  mysteries,  her  red  eyes,  her 
bad  reading,  and  also  of  her  not  wishing  to  leave 
Rome.  He  had  been  informed  of  these  things 
by  anonymous  letters.  Woe  to  her  if  she  did  not 
break  with  that  madman!  Woe  to  her  if  she 
sacrificed  her  convictions  to  him,  if  she  allowed 
herself  to  be  won  over  to  superstition,  to  bigotry, 
to  the  religion  of  the  priests!  He  would  never 
look  on  her  face  again.  He  would  disown  her  as  a 
sister,  he  who  wished  to  live  and  die  a  free-thinker. 
No,  no,  she  must  break,  break!  They  would 
go  to  Naples,  to  Palermo,  to  Africa  if  necessary! 

"A  free-thinker?  Certainly.  And  what  about 
my  liberty?  "  Jeanne  said  without  anger,  simply 
reminding  him  of  a  right,  but  without  the  inten- 
tion of  taking  advantage  of  it.  Carlino  thought, 
on  the  contrary,  that  she  intended  taking  advan- 


Jeanne  435 

tage  of  it  in  the  way  he  feared,  and  lost  his  head 
completely.  Jeanne  grew  faint  as  she  listened 
to  the  abuse  which  this  man  poured  forth  with 
so  much  bitterness,  this  man  whom  she  had  known 
to  be  nervous,  but  had  believed  to  be  good  and 
kind.  She  spoke  no  word  in  reply,  but  withdrew 
to  her  own  room,  trembling  violently.  She  wrote 
him  a  few  lines  telling  him  that  her  dignity  would 
not  permit  her  to  remain  with  him  unless  he 
apologised  for  his  insults;  that  she  was  going 
away,  and  that  if  he  wished  to  send  her  a  word, 
he  would  find  her  at  Casa  Selva.  She  took  only 
a  small  bag  with  her,  and,  leaving  the  letter  on 
the  writing-desk,  went  out  accompanied  by  her 
maid. 

She  could  not  see  any  cabs  near  the  hotel,  so 
she  started  towards  the  Esedro  intending  to  take 
the  tram  there.  The  west  wind  was  blowing. 
The  evergreen  oaks  along  the  avenue  were  writh- 
ing and  groaning.  It  was  dark,  and  hard  walk- 
ing on  the  uneven  soil.  The  frightened  maid 
exclaimed : 

"  Gesummaria,  Signora!     Where  are  we  going?" 

Jeanne,  her  head  aflame,  her  heart  and  her  pulse 
in  a  tumult,  went  on  without  answering.  It 
seemed  to  her  she  was  being  borne  through  the 
darkness  towards  him,  on  the  tide  of  an  unknown 
sea. 

Towards  him,  towards  him.  Towards  his  God 
also?  The  mighty  wind  confused  her,  roaring 
above  and  around  her.  Noemi's  words,  Carlino's 


436  The  Saint 

words  were  rending  her  soul  in  a  violent  struggle. 
Towards  his  God  also?  Ah!  how  could  she  tell? 
In  the  meantime,  towards  him! 


CHAPTER  IX 
IN  THE  WHIRLWIND  OF  GOD 

I 

AT  two  o'clock  on  the  following  day  Jeanne, 
with  Maria  and  Noemi,  was  waiting  at 
Casa  Selva  for  news  from  Villa  May  da,  her  thoughts 
dwelling,  from  time  to  time,  on  the  persistent 
silence  at  the  Grand  Hotel.  Giovanni  had  gone 
to  Villa  Mayda  before  seven  o'  clock.  He  had 
returned  at  nine.  He  had  not  been  able  to  see 
Benedetto.  Professor  Mayda  would  not  allow 
him  or  any  one  else  to  enter.  He  knew  that  the 
sick  man  had  received  the  Sacraments,  but  more 
as  an  act  of  devotion  than  because  he  was  in 
immediate  danger.  However,  in  the  night  a 
trace  of  fever  had  reappeared.  It  was  hoped  the 
attack  might  be  conquered  or  checked.  Perhaps, 
in  making  this  report  to  Jeanne,  Giovanni  had 
slightly  coloured  it  with  optimism.  Benedetto 
was  in  the  Professor's  own  room.  Giovanni  said 
it  would  not  be  possible  to  describe  how  full  of 
exquisite,  womanly  tenderness  were  the  attentions 
lavished  upon  him  by  this  terrible  Mayda,  who 
was  believed  by  many  to  be  harsh  and  proud. 
Giovanni  had  gone  back  again  after  lunch 

437 


The  Saint 


about  mid-day.  From  Carlino  nothing  had  come, 
neither  a  written  word,  nor  a  message.  Not- 
withstanding her  other  great  sorrow,  Jeanne  could 
not  help  thinking  of  him  also.  What  if  his  grief, 
his  anger,  had  really  made  him  ill?  Her  friends 
reassured  her.  Either  the  maid  or  the  footman 
would  have  come  to  tell  her.  She  had  little  confi- 
dence in  the  intelligence  of  these  servants.  What 
was  to  be  done?  Jeanne  was  about  to  beg  that 
some  one  might  be  sent  to  inquire,  when,  at  a 
quarter-past  two,  hurried  steps  were  heard  in  the 
hall,  and  Giovanni  entered,  in  his  great-coat,  his 
hat  in  his  hand.  Jeanne  glanced  at  his  face,  and 
understood  that  the  moment  was  come.  She 
rose,  as  white  as  death.  Silently  and  immediately 
Maria  and  Noemi  rose  also,  Maria  watching 
Jeanne,  while  Noemi  gazed  at  her  brother-in-law, 
who,  confronted  by  Jeanne's  ghostly  face,  could 
find  no  words.  Five  or  six  terrible  seconds 
passed,  but  not  more.  Then  Maria  said,  in  a 
hushed  voice: 

"Are  we  to  go?" 

Her  husband  answered: 

"We  had  better  go." 

Nothing  more  was  said. 

The  three  ladies  went  to  put  on  their  cloaks 
and  hats,  Jeanne  into  one  room,  Maria  and  No- 
emi into  another.  Giovanni  followed  his  wife 
and  Noemi.  Well?  The  fever  had  greatly  in- 
creased, and  the  Professor  no  longer  hoped. 
Noemi,  hearing  this,  put  on  her  hat  quickly,  and 


In  the  Whirlwind  of  God        439 

went  to  the  other  room,  where  Jeanne  was  dressing. 
She  turned,  saw  that  Noemi  was  coming  to  kiss 
her,  and  checked  her,  with  a  gesture  placing  her 
finger  on  her  lips.  Noemi  understood.  It  was 
a  time  for  fortitude;  Jeanne  would  have  neither 
kisses,  nor  words,  nor  tears.  She  did  not  ask  for 
particulars,  asked  no  questions.  They  all  met 
presently,  and  Maria  told  her  husband,  in  a  low 
tone,  to  send  for  two  closed  cabs,  for  the  sky  had 
become  overcast,  and  one  of  the  thunderstorms 
of  the  Roman  winter  was  threatening.  No  cabs 
would  be  necessary,  for  Giovanni  had  come  in  the 
landau,  belonging  to  Casa  May  da.  They  entered 
the  landau,  which  was  closed.  Then  Jeanne 
noticed  that  her  companions  had  on  dark  dresses, 
while  she  was  wearing  a  gray  dress,  too  light  and 
too  fashionable.  She  started  slightly,  and  the 
others  looked  at  her  questioningly.  She  hesitated 
a  moment,  but  reflected  that  she  had  neither 
the  time  nor  the  means  to  make  a  change,  and 
answered: 

"It  is  nothing." 

The  carriage  moved  on.     No  one  spoke  again. 

Upon  turning  into  Via  del  Pianto  the  carriage 
was  stopped  by  an  obstruction.  It  had  grown 
darker  still  and  was  thundering.  The  horses  were 
frightened,  and  Maria  looked  anxiously  out  of  the 
window.  Jeanne,  seated  opposite  Giovanni,  asked 
him  in  a  low  tone  if  he  had  telegraphed  to  Don 
Clemente.  Giovanni  answered  that  Don  Cle- 
mente  had  been  at  Villa  Mayda  ever  since  half-past 


44°  The  Saint 

ten.  The  carriage  started  forward.  When  they 
reached  Piazza  Montanara  it  began  to  rain. 
The  horses  were  trotting  rapidly.  When  at  last 
the  coachman  brought  them  down  to  a  walk 
Maria  looked  at  her  husband — Is  not  this  the 
Aventine?  We  must  be  near.  This  was  said 
with  the  eyes,  not  with  the  lips.  Jeanne  had 
never  passed  that  way,  but  she  also  felt  that  they 
would  soon  reach  their  destination.  Holding 
herself  very  straight,  she  stared  at  the  wall,  which 
passed  before  her  eyes.  She  stared  at  it  attent- 
ively, as  if  striving  to  count  the  chinks  between 
the  stones.  The  horses  broke  into  a  trot.  Beyond 
Sant'  Anselmo  the  road  leads  downwards.  Peo- 
ple standing  on  the  right  and  on  the  left  looked 
into  the  carriage.  Involuntarily  Giovanni  Selva 
murmured: 

"Here  we  are." 

Then  Jeanne  started  violently,  and  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands.  Maria,  who  sat  next  to 
her,  put  her  arm  round  her  neck,  and,  bending 
close  to  her,  whispered : 

"Courage!" 

But  Jeanne  drew  back,  avoiding  her  as  much 
as  possible,  while  Noemi  shook  her  head,  signing 
to  her  sister  not  to  insist.  Maria  sighed,  and  the 
carriage,  turning  to  the  left,  between  two  dense 
lines  of  people,  passed  through  a  gateway.  The 
wheels  grated  on  the  gravel  and  then  stopped. 
A  servant  came  to  the  door.  The  Professor 
desired  them  to  come  into  the  villa,  Not  until 


In  the  Whirlwind  of  God          441 

then  did  Giovanni  Selva  tell  his  companions  that 
Benedetto  was  no  longer  in  the  villa,  that  he  had 
begged  to  be  carried  to  his  little  old  room  in  the 
gardener's  house.  The  carriage  moved  forward 
a  few  yards,  and  the  four  friends  alighted  before 
a  flight  of  white  marble  steps,  between  two  groups 
of  palms.  It  was  still  raining,  but  not  heavily, 
and  no  one  thought  about  it,  neither  the  populace 
crowding  round  the  gate,  nor  a  group  of  people 
who  were  watching  the  new  arrivals,  from  the 
avenue  bordered  by  orange  trees,  which  ran 
parallel  with  the  inclosing  wall  down  to  the 
gardener's  little  house.  Some  one  left  the  group. 
It  was  di  Leyni,  who  mounted  the  marble  steps 
behind  Selva,  and,  stopping  him  under  the  arch 
of  the  Pompeian  vestibule,  spoke  to  him  in  a  low 
tone,  without  so  much  as  a  glance  at  the  magnifi- 
cent scene  which  was  spread  out  before  them 
between  the  two  groups  of  palms:  the  river  of 
begonias,  tumbling  down  the  slope  of  the  Aventine, 
between  two  banks  of  muses  \  the  black  and 
stormy  sky,  striped  with  white  down  above  the 
battlements  of  Porta  San  Paolo,  above  the  pyra- 
mid of  Caio  Cestio,  and  above  the  little  grove 
of  cypress  which  springs  from  the  heart  of  Shelley. 

Selva  entered  the  vestibule,  and  reappeared  a 
moment  later  with  his  wrife.  They  went  down 
the  steps  with  di  Leyni,  and  turned  in  the  direction 
of  the  people,  who  seemed  to  be  expecting  them 
in  the  avenue  of  orange-trees.  At  that  moment 


442  The  Saint 

a  volley  of  angry  voices  rang  out  at  the  gate. 
The  road  was  full  of  people.  They  had  been 
waiting  for  hours,  ever  since  the  rumour  spread 
in  the  Testaccio  quarter  that  the  Saint  of  Jenne 
had  returned  to  Villa  May  da,  but  was  ill.  So  far 
they  had  asked  only  for  news.  Now  they  de- 
manded that  a  deputation  be  allowed  to  enter, 
and  to  see  him.  The  servants  refused  to  take 
the  message,  and  an  exchange  of  angry  words  was 
the  result,  which,  however,  suddenly  stopped  as  the 
tall,  dark  figure  of  Professor  Mayda  appeared, 
coming  from  the  orange-grove.  The  men  took  off 
their  hats.  He  ordered  the  gate  to  be  opened, 
told  the  people  that  all  should  see  Benedetto 
later,  but  not  now.  In  the  meantime  they  might 
come  into  the  garden.  "  Of  course,  poor  things ! " 

And  the  people  entered,  slowly,  respectfully, 
some  gathering  around  the  Professor  and  asking, 
with  tears  in  their  eyes : 

"Is  it  true,  Signor  Professore?  Is  it  true  he  is 
dying?  Tell  us!" 

And  behind  them  others  pressed,  anxiously 
awaiting  the  answer.  The  answer  was  only: 

"Alas!   What  can  I  say  to  you?" 

But  the  sad,  manly  face  said  more  than  the  words 
and  the  crowd  moved  away  mournfully,  along  the 
green  slopes,  which  had  taken  on  a  livid  hue 
under  the  black  sky  streaked  with  white  and 
formed  a  mystic  symbol  of  death,  of  the  dark 
passage  from  terrestrial  shadows  to  the  upper 
regions  of  infinite  brightness. 


In  the  Whirlwind  of  God         443 

II 

Benedetto  loved  Professor  Mayda.  When,  at 
the  Senator's  house,  he  heard  that  the  Professor 
had  decided  to  carry  him  away  to  Villa  Mayda, 
he  showed  great  pleasure.  He  loved  this  man, 
who  was  perhaps,  as  yet,  incapable  of  faith,  but 
was  profoundly  convinced  that  there  are  enigmas 
which  science  cannot  solve;  who  was  generous, 
haughty  with  the  great,  but  gentle  with  the  humble. 
He  loved  the  garden  also,  the  trees,  the  flowers, 
and  the  grass,  whose  friend  and  servant  he  had 
been,  as  he  had  been  the  friend  and  servant  of 
the  Professor.  Everything  in  this  garden  was 
full  of  sweet,  innocent  souls,  in  whose  company 
he  had  adored  God  in  certain  moments  of  spiritual 
ecstasy,  placing  his  lips  on  the  tiny  beings,  on  a 
flower,  on  a  leaf,  on  a  stem,  in  a  breath  of  green 
coolness.  He  was  happy  in  the  thought  of  dying 
amidst  them.  Sometimes,  under  one  of  those 
pine-trees,  its  canopy,  full  of  wind  and  of  sound, 
turned  towards  the  Coelian  Hill,  he  had  thought 
of  the  last  scene  in  his  vision,  and  had  imagined 
himself  stretched  there  on  the  grass,  in  the 
Benedictine  habit,  pale  and  calm,  and  surrounded 
by  mournful  faces,  while  the  pine-tree  above  him 
sang  the  mysterious  song  of  Heaven.  Each  time 
he  had  stifled  in  his  heart  this  sense  of  pleasure, 
which  was  not  unmixed  with  selfish,  human  vanity, 
and  not  entirely  controlled  and  suppressed  in 
submission  to  the  Divine  Will.  But  he  had  not 
been  able  to  tear  out  its  roots. 


444  The  Saint 

Therefore  he  stretched  out  his  arms  gratefully 
to  the  Professor.  But  immediately  he  was  assailed 
by  scruples.  His  intelligence  and  his  Christian 
sentiment  were  in  a  state  of  contradiction.  He 
was  aware  that  he  was  not  liked  by  the  lady  who 
had  married  the  Professor's  son,  a  naval  officer, 
now  in  the  East;  he  saw  that  his  return  to  Villa 
Mayda  would  be  displeasing  to  her,  and  a  source 
of  discord  between  her  father-in-law  and  herself. 
But  how  could  he  say  so  now,  without  implying 
a  want  of  justice  and  of  charity  in  a  person  whom, 
from  the  very  fact  that  she  was  his  enemy,  he  was 
especially  bound  to  love?  He  entreated  the 
Professor  to  let  him  go  to  Sant'  Onofrio.  The 
change  was  so  sudden  that  it  surprised  Mayda. 
He  thought  a  moment,  understood,  and  then 
said,  knitting  his  brows: 

"Do  you  wish  me  never  to  forgive  some  one 
for  something? " 

Benedetto  offered  no  further  opposition.  Only 
when  that  night  the  moment  came  to  go  down 
to  the  carriage,  and  he  realised  that  he  could 
not  stand  alone,  he  said  to  the  Professor,  smiling, 
and  placing  his  hand  on  his  friend's  arm : 

"You  know  that,  if  I  continue  thus,  you  will 
have  a  dead  man  in  your  house  to-morrow  or 
the  day  after?" 

The  Professor  replied  that  he  would  not  lie  to 
him,  that  this  was  possible,  but  not  certain. 

"You  know,"  Benedetto  continued,  no  longer 
smiling,  "  that  first  you  will  have '' 


In  the  Whirlwind  of  God         445 

"I  understand  what  you  mean,"  the  Professor 
interrupted  him.  "Come  in  peace,  dear  friend. 
I  am  not  a  believer,  as  you  are,  but  I  wish  I  were ; 
and  I  will  throw  my  doors  open  respectfully  to 
all  whom  you  may  wish  me  to  see.  Meanwhile 
shall  we  not  take  this  with  us?" 

From  the  wall  he  took  the  Crucifix  which 
Benedetto  had  brought  with  him,  and  then  lifted 
the  sick  man  in  his  powerful  arms. 

The  journey  was  accomplished  without  acci- 
dent. Stretched  across  the  landau,  upon  a  bank  of 
cushions,  Benedetto,  who  seemed  to  have  shrunk 
in  stature,  answered  the  Professor's  frequent 
questions  more  often  with  a  smile  than  with  his 
feeble  voice.  The  Professor  kept  his  finger 
continually  on  Benedetto's  pulse,  and  from  time 
to  time  gave  him  a  cordial.  At  the  entrance 
to  the  villa,  either  from  emotion  or  from  fatigue, 
the  sick  man's  poor,  fleshless  face  blanched,  and 
was  covered  with  sweat,  and  he  closed  his  great, 
shining  eyes.  Mayda  carried  him  to  his  own  bed, 
and  thus  it  happened  that  when  Benedetto 
regained  consciousness  he  was  quite  bewildered. 

In  his  state  of  extreme  weakness  he  did  not 
regain  consciousness  without  passing  through 
shadows  of  vain  imaginings.  He  thought  he  was 
dead,  and  lying  on  the  ever-dark  face  of  the  moon, 
in  the  centre  of  a  funnel,  formed  by  the  solar  rays, 
which  streaked  away  to  the  infinite;  and  at  the 
dark  bottom  of  this  funnel  he  saw  the  flaming  eyes 
of  the  stars.  Little  by  little  he  realised  he  was 


446  The  Saint 

on  an  enormous  bed  which  stood  in  darkness,  but 
was  surrounded  by  a  pale  light,  so  dim  that  the 
walls  were  hardly  visible.  Great  shadows  were 
moving  about  him.  Opposite  him  was  a  blue, 
open  space,  all  strewn  with  specks  of  light.  His 
heart  beat  faster.  Were  they  not,  indeed,  stars? 
He  was  obliged  to  remind  himself  of  the  feeling 
of  the  bed,  and  that  he  was  alive,  in  order  to 
convince  himself  that  they  were  stars,  but  that 
he  was  not  lying  on  the  moon.  Where  was  he, 
then?  He  gave  himself  up  to  a  sense  of  sweetness 
which  was  coming  over  him,  the  sweetness 
of  hardly  feeling  his  body  any  longer,  but  of 
feeling  God  in  his  soul,  so  near,  so  tender,  so 
warm.  He  was  where  God  wished  him  to  be. 

A  hand  was  laid  on  his  forehead,  an  electric 
light  dazzled  his  eyes,  and  an  affectionate,  strong 
voice  said : 

"Well,  how  do  you  feel?" 

He  recognised  Mayda.  Then  he  asked  him 
where  he  was,  why  he  was  not  in  his  little  old 
room?  Before  the  Professor  could  answer,  Ben- 
edetto was  assailed  by  a  painful  doubt.  The 
Crucifix?  The  dear  Crucifix?  Had  it  been  left 
at  the  Senator's  house?  The  Crucifix  was  stand- 
ing on  the  table  by  his  side.  The  Professor 
showed  it  to  him. 

"Do  you  not  remember,"  he  said,  using  the 
affectionate  "  thou  ",  "  that  we  brought  it  with  us?" 

Benedetto  looked  at  him,  pleased  at  the  new 
word  of  affection,  and  stretched  out  his  hand  in 


In  the  Whirlwind  of  God         447 

search  of  Mayda's;  the  Professor  took  it  tenderly 
between  his  own. 

At  the  same  time  he  felt  humiliated  by  his  own 
forgetfulness.  Was  he  about  to  lose  his  reason? 
All  the  previous  day  he  had  thought  about  the 
words  he  should  speak  to  his  friends,  and  to  the 
person  who  had  made  her  invisible  presence  so 
keenly  felt.  But  if  he  lost  his  reason?  The 
Professor  began  to  saturate  him  with  quinine. 
At  first  Benedetto  accepted  these  painful  injections 
and  bitter  doses  willingly,  in  his  desire  to  grow 
a  little  stronger,  and  thus  to  ward  off  the  darkening 
of  his  spirit,  and  also  because  he  wished  to  suffer. 
Oh  yes!  to  suffer,  to  suffer!  During  the  preceding 
days  he  had  suffered  greatly,  not  from  any  local 
pain,  not  from  any  acute  pain,  but  his  was  an 
inexpressible  suffering,  which  extended  from  the 
roots  of  his  hair  to  the  soles  of  his  feet.  It  had 
been  a  beatitude  for  his  soul  to  be  able,  in  such 
moments,  to  associate  his  own  will  with  the 
Divine  Will,  to  accept  from  this  Love  all  the  pain 
which  he  was  destined  to  suffer,  without  revealing 
to  him  the  mysterious  reason,  a  reason  hidden 
in  the  designs  of  the  Universe,  certainly  a  reason 
bringing  good;  bringing  good  not  only  to  him 
who  suffered,  but  universal  good ;  a  good  radiating 
from  his  poor  body,  and  without  known  limits, 
like  the  movement  of  a  vibrating  atom  of  the 
world.  Oh!  to  suffer  great  things,  like  Christ, 
humbly,  to  continue  the  redemption,  as  a  sinner 
may,  making  amends  by  his  own  pain  for  the  ills 


448  The  Saint 

of  others.  There  on  that  lonely  path  leading  to 
the  Sacro  Speco,  in  the  roaring  of  the  Anio,  among 
the  everlasting  hills,  Don  Clemen te  had  spoken 
thus  to  him. 

And  now  that  mortal  suffering  was  past. 
When  the  quinine  began  to  ring  in  his  head,  he 
felt  discouraged.  These  remedies  were  stupefying 
him.  He  called  the  Professor;  a  sister  answered 
him.  He  begged  that  a  priest  might  be  sent  for 
from  Bocca  della  Verita. 

The  Professor,  who  had  gone  to  rest  for  an  hour, 
came  to  reassure  him,  and  judged  it  best  to  tell 
him  what  he  had  before  concealed.  Don  Cle- 
mente  had  telegraphed  to  Selva  that  he  would 
reach  Rome  the  next  morning  at  ten  o'clock. 
This  was  a  great  joy  to  Benedetto. 

"But  will  it  not  be  too  late?"  he  said.  "Will 
it  not  be  too  late?" 

No,  it  would  not  be  too  late.  At  present  he 
was  not  in  immediate  danger.  It  would  be  a 
question  of  life  and  death  if  the  fever  should 
return,  but  even  in  the  worst  event  many  hours 
would  elapse.  May  da  feared  he  had  spoken  too 
plainly,  and  whispered  to  him : 

"But  you  will  recover." 

He  left  the  room.  Benedetto,  thinking  of 
Don  Clemen  te,  passed  from  the  quiet  of  his 
contentment  into  a  light  sleep,  into  dreams, 
whither  the  spirits  of  evil  descended,  and  conjured 
up  for  him  a  deceitful  vision,  suggested  by  the 
Professor's  last  words. 


In  the  Whirlwind  of  God         449 

He  saw  himself  confronted  by  a  colossal  marble 
wall,  crowned  with  rich  balustrades,  which  shone 
white  in  the  moonlight.  Up  there,  behind  the 
balustrades,  a  dense  forest  swayed  in  the  wind. 
Six  flights  of  stairs,  these  also  flanked  by  balus- 
trades, slanted  down,  across  the  face  of  the  great 
wall,  three  on  the  left,  and  three  on  the  right, 
and  terminated  upon  six  landings,  jutting  out 
from  the  wall.  The  upper  balustrades  were 
divided  by  small  pilasters,  supporting  urns. 
And  now,  between  the  urns,  six  beautiful  maidens 
appeared;  they  seemed  to  be  dancing  and  all 
came  forward  at  the  same  time,  with  the  same 
graceful  motion  of  the  head.  They  were  all 
dressed  alike,  in  pale  blue  robes,  which  left  their 
shoulders  bare.  With  the  same  harmonious 
movement  of  their  bare  arms,  bending  their 
bodies  forward,  they  offered  him  from  their 
elevation,  six  shining  silver  goblets.  Then,  at 
the  same  moment,  all  withdrew  from  the  balus- 
trade, to  reappear  again  simultaneously,  on  the 
six  flights  of  stairs,  down  which  they  came  with 
uniform  swiftness,  and  reaching  the  landings 
they  again  offered  him  the  six  shining  goblets, 
bending  their  bodies  forward  gracefully,  and 
gazing  at  him  with  a  strange  gravity.  No  word 
fell  from  their  lips,  but  nevertheless  he  knew  that 
the  six  maidens  were  offering  him,  in  those  six 
silver  goblets,  an  elixir  of  life,  of  health,  of  pleasure. 
He  felt  a  distressing,  mortal  fear  of  them;  still 
he  could  not  remove  his  glance  from  the  shining 
29 


450  The  Saint 

goblets,  from  the  lovely,  grave  faces  bending  over 
them.  He  strove  to  close  his  eyes,  and  could  not; 
strove  to  cry  out  to  God,  and  could  not.  At  last 
the  six  dancing-girls  inclined  the  goblets  towards 
him,  and  six  flowing  ribbons  of  liquor  streamed 
through  the  air.  "Just  as  I  did,  at  Praglia!"  the 
sleeper  thought,  confusing  persons  in  his  clouded 
mind.  Then  everything  disappeared,  and  he 
saw  Jeanne  before  him.  Holding  herself  erect, 
wrapped  in  her  green  cloak  lined  with  fur, 
her  face  shadowed  by  the  great  black  hat,  she 
gazed  at  him  as  she  had  done  at  Praglia,  at  the 
moment  of  their  first  meeting.  But  this  time  the 
sleeper  perceived  a  resemblance  between  the 
gravity  of  that  look  and  the  gravity  of  the 
dancing-girls'  faces.  In  his  spirit  he  read  the  silent 
word  of  the  seven  souls:  Unhappy  man,  you 
now  recognise  your  grievous  error;  you  now 
know  that  God  is  not!  The  gravity  of  the  glances 
was  only  the  sadness  of  pity.  The  goblets  of 
life,  of  health,  of  pleasure,  were  offered  him 
discreetly,  and  without  joy,  as  to  one  in  mourning, 
who  has  lost  all  he  held  dearest ;  offered  as  the  only 
poor  comfort  left  him.  Thus  Jeanne  offered  her 
love.  And  the  sleeper  was  filled  with  what 
seemed  to  him  fresh  evidence  that  God  is  not! 
It  was,  indeed,  a  real  physical  sensation,  a  chill 
creeping  over  all  his  limbs,  moving  slowly  to  the 
heart.  He  began  to  tremble  violently,  and  awoke. 
Mayda  was  bending  over  him,  the  thermometer 
in  his  hand.  Benedetto  murmured,  with  straining 


In  the  Whirlwind  of  God         45 ' 

eyes:  "  Father!— Father!— Father!"  The  sister 
suggested,  "  Our  Father  who  art  in  Heaven," 
and  would  have  gone  on  in  her  unfortunately 
colourless  voice,  had  not  the  Professor  checked 
her  sharply.  He  applied  the  thermometer  to 
Benedetto,  who  hardly  noticed  what  was  being 
done.  He  was  absorbed  in  the  effort  to  detach 
from  his  innermost  self  the  images  of  those 
tempting  figures,  and  of  their  horrible  words; 
in  the  effort  to  cast  himself,  soul  and  conscience, 
upon  the  Father's  breast,  to  cling  to  Him  with  his 
whole  being,  to  lose  himself  in  the  Father.  Slowly 
the  images  began  to  give  way,  their  assaults 
becoming  each  time  more  brief,  less  violent. 
His  face  was  so  transfigured  in  this  mystic  tension 
of  the  soul,  that  May  da,  watching  him,  was  as  one 
turned  to  stone,  and  forgot  to  look  at  his  watch, 
until  the  features,  which  had  been  contracted 
in  that  anxious  prayer,  finally  began  to  relax 
into  a  peaceful  composure.  Then  he  remembered, 
and  removed  the  thermometer.  The  sister,  stand- 
ing behind  him,  held  up  the  electric  lamp,  trying 
to  see  also.  He  could  not  at  first  distinguish  the 
points,  and  during  those  few  seconds  of  fixed 
attention  neither  of  them  noticed  that  the  invalid 
had  turned  upon  his  side,  and  was  looking  at  the 
Professor.  At  last  Mayda  gave  the  instrument 
a  shake.  How  many  points  had  it  marked? 
The  sister  did  not  dare  to  inquire,  and  the  Pro- 
fessor's face  was  impenetrable.  Without  his 
noticing  the  motion,  the  sick  man  stretched  out 


45 2  The  Saint 

his  hand  and  touched  him  gently  on  the  arm. 
Mayda  turned  towards  him,  and  read  in  his 
smiling  eyes  the  question,  "Well?"  He  did  not 
speak,  but  answered  with  that  undulating  move- 
ment of  open  hands  which  meant  neither  good 
nor  bad.  Then  he  sat  down  beside  the  bed,  still 
silent,  impenetrable,  looking  at  Benedetto,  who 
had  sunk  upon  his  back  once  more,  and  no  longer 
looked  at  him,  but  was  gazing  at  the  specks  of 
light  in  the  immense  expanse  of  blue. 

"Professor,"  he  said,  "what  time  is  it?" 

"Three  o'clock." 

"At  five  you  must  send  for  the  priest  from 
Bocca  della  Verita." 

"Very  well." 

"Will  it  be  too  late?" 

This  last  question  the  Professor  answered  with 
a  loud  and  ringing  "  No."  After  a  moment  of 
silence  he  added,  in  a  lower  tone,  another  "no"  as 
if  in  answer  to  his  own  thoughts.  The  ther- 
mometer had  gone  up  to  thirty-seven  point  five ; 
more  than  one  degree  since  the  evening  before. 
Should  the  fever  increase,  should  there  be  danger 
of  delirium,  he  would  send  at  once  to  Bocca  della 
Verita,  even  before  five  o'clock.  It  did  not  seem 
probable  the  fever  would  increase  rapidly,  although 
that  thirty-seven  point  five  had  a  black  look. 

He  asked  the  invalid  if  the  electric  light  troubled 
him.  Benedetto  replied  that  materially  it  did 
not  trouble  him,  but  that  spirituallyit  did,  because 
it  prevented  his  seeing  the  sky,  the  starry  night. 


In  the  Whirlwind  of  God         453 

"  Illuminatio  mea, "  said  he,  softly. 

The  Professor  did  not  understand,  and  made 
him  repeat  the  words.  Then  he  asked  him 
what  his  light  was,  and  the  feeble  voice  mur- 
mured, 

"Nox." 

Mayda  was  not  familiar  with  the  Psalms,  with 
the  profound  word  of  that  ancient  Hebrew,  to 
whom  our  little  sun  seemed  dark,  the  sun  which 
conceals  the  higher  world.  He  understood,  with- 
out understanding.  He  remained  reverently  silent. 

Benedetto  sought  the  stars  with  his  eyes. 
His  own  conscience  was  passing  in  those  stars, 
which  gazed  upon  him  so  austerely,  knowing  he 
was  about  to  review — before  the  threatening  hour 
of  death — the  whole  moral  history  of  his  life,  to 
tell  it  in  words  which  would  be  a  first  judgment, 
pronounced  in  the  name  of  the  God  of  Justice, 
impelled  by  the  God  of  Love;  in  words  that 
would  not  be  lost,  because  no  movement  is  lost; 
which  would  appear — who  knows  how,  who  knows 
where,  who  knows  when  ? — to  the  glory  of  Christ, 
as  the  supreme  testimony  of  a  spirit  to  moral 
Truth,  directed  against  itself.  Thus  the  silent 
stars  spoke  to  him,  animated  by  his  own  thoughts. 
And  his  life  was  pictured  in  his  mind  from  begin- 
ning to  end,  the  external,  salient  outline  less 
strongly  marked  than  the  inner  moral  substance. 
He  saw  all  the  first  part  of  it  dominated  by  a 
religious  conception  in  which  egotism  prevailed, 
and  so  ordered  as  to  make  the  love  of  God  and  the 


454  The  Saint 

love  of  man  converge  into  an  individual  well-being, 
the  aim  being  personal  perfection,  and  reward. 
He  was  grieved  that  he  had  thus  obeyed  in  words 
only  the  law  which  places  the  love  of  God  before 
the  love  of  self;  and  it  was  a  gentle  grief,  not 
because  it  was  easy  to  find  excuses  for  this  error, 
to  impute  it  to  teachers,  but  because  it  was  sweet 
to  feel  his  own  minuteness  in  the  wave  of  grace 
which  enveloped  him.  And  he  felt  his  own 
minuteness  in  that  past,  spoiled  by  imperfect 
beliefs,  influenced  by  the  uprising  of  the  senses, 
in  the  central  depression  of  his  life,  which  had  been 
one  vast  tissue  of  sensuality,  of  weakness,  of 
contradictions,  of  lies.  He  felt  his  own  minute- 
ness in  his  life  after  his  conversion,  the  impulse 
and  work  of  an  inner  Will,  which  had  prevailed 
against  his  own  will,  and  during  this  last  period 
it  seemed  to  him,  he  himself  had  weighted  the 
scales  against  the  good  impulse.  He  longed 
to  drop  off  this  "self"  which  held  him  back  like 
a  heavy  garment.  He  saw  that  the  affection 
for  the  Vision  was  part  of  this  burdensome  "self." 
He  aspired  to  Divine  Truth  in  all  its  mystery, 
whatever  it  might  be,  and  gave  himself  to  Divine 
Truth  with  such  violence  of  desire  that  the 
spasm  of  it  nearly  rent  him  asunder.  And  the 
stars  shone  forth  upon  him  such  a  lively  sense 
of  the  immeasurable  vastness  of  Divine  Truth 
as  compared  with  his  own  and  his  friends'  religious 
conceptions,  and  at  the  same  time  such  a  firm 
faith  that  he  was  travelling  towards  that  vastness, 


In  the  Whirlwind  of  God         455 

that  he  suddenly  raised  his  head  from  the  pillow 
exclaiming : 

"Ah!" 

The  sister  was  dozing,  not  so  the  Professor. 

"What  is  it?"  said  he.  "Do  you  see  some- 
thing?" 

Benedetto  did  not  reply  immediately.  The 
Professor  raised  the  lamp,  and  bent  over  him. 
Then  Benedetto  turned  his  face  and  looked  at 
Mayda  with  an  expression  of  intense  desire,  and 
after  gazing  at  him  a  long  time,  sighed : 

"Ah,  Professor!  Indeed  you  must  come  where 
I  am  going!  " 

"But  do  you  know  where  you  are  going?" 
Mayda  said. 

"I  know,"  Benedetto  replied,  "that  I  am 
parting  with  all  that  is  corruptible,  all  that  is 
burdensome." 

He  then  inquired  if  some  one  had  gone  to  the 
parish  church.  Not  yet:  only  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  had  passed.  He  apologised.  It  had  seemed 
a  century  to  him.  He  entreated  the  Professor 
to  retire,  to  take  some  rest,  and  once  more  he 
fell  to  watching  the  celestial  lights.  Then  he 
closed  his  eyes,  longing  for  Jesus,  for  two  human 
arms  which  should  lift  him  up,  should  encircle 
him ;  longed  for  a  human  breast,  incarnate  of  the 
Divine,  in  which  to  hide  his  head,  as  he  entered 
the  vast  mystery. 

At  six  o'clock  he  received  the  Sacraments. 
The  thermometer  had  risen  a  few  points. 


456  The  Saint 

At  nine  Benedetto  asked  for  Giovanni  Selva. 
He  learned  that  he  had  been  there,  and  had  gone 
away  again,  but  that  di  Leyni  was  waiting. 
He  insisted  upon  seeing  him,  notwithstanding 
the  Professor's  opposition.  He  told  him  he  wished 
to  greet  at  least  some  of  his  friends  of  the  Cata- 
combs. Di  Leyni  knew  of  this  desire,  for  Selva 
had  mentioned  it  to  him.  He  could  announce  to 
Benedetto  that  they  were  to  meet  at  Villa  Mayda 
about  one  o'clock.  The  nursing  sister  who  had 
come  shortly  before  to  relieve  her  companion 
indiscreetly  remarked  that  many  of  the  common 
people  were  asking  for  news.  Benedetto  said 
nothing  at  the  moment,  but  when  di  Leyni  was 
gone  he  sent  for  the  Professor.  The  Professor 
was  not  in,  he  had  been  obliged  to  go  to  the 
University.  The  sister's  words  had  made  Bene- 
detto form  a  definite  resolution,  which  he  had  been 
thinking  about  ever  since  the  first  light  of  day 
had  shown  him  the  walls  of  the  room,  decorated 
with  mythological  subjects,  in  the  style  of  the 
House  of  Li  via.  He  longed  with  an  intense 
longing  for  his  little  old  room.  There  he  would 
see  his  friends,  the  common  people,  who  wished 
to  visit  him,  and  that  other  person,  if  she  came. 
He  begged  to  speak  with  the  gardener,  with  the 
servants,  and  he  told  them  of  his  wish.  When 
they  refused  to  move  him,  he  besought  them  for 
the  love  of  God  to  do  so,  and  he  so  worked  upon 
their  feelings  that  they  finally  consented,  at  the 
risk  of  being  dismissed  from  service.  "  These  are 


In  the  Whirlwind  of  God        457 

indeed  the  ideas  of  a  Saint! "  thought  the  sister. 
Benedetto  made  the  journey  in  the  arms  of  the 
gardener  and  of  one  of  the  men-servants;  he  was 
wrapped  in  blankets,  and  held  the  Crucifix  in  his 
hands.  His  delight  at  once  more  finding  him- 
self in  his  poor  little  room  was  so  great  that 
all  thought  he  was  improving.  But  still  the 
thermometer  rose. 

After  one  o'clock  the  thermometer  registered 
thirty-nine.  Don  Clemente  had  arrived  at  half- 
past  ten. 

Ill 

The  Selvas  and  di  Leyni  joined  the  group  of 
people  who  were  waiting  for  them  in  the  avenue 
of  orange-trees.  They  were  all  laymen  save  one, 
a  young  priest  from  the  Abruzzo.  He  was  short, 
with  skin  of  an  olive  hue,  and  his  black  eyes  were 
deep,  and  fiery.  The  student  Elia  Viterbo 
was  also  there.  He  was  a  Christian  now,  and 
had  been  baptized  by  the  young  priest.  There 
was  the  fair-haired  Lombard  youth,  the  master's 
favourite.  There  was  a  very  handsome  young 
workman,  with  the  face  of  an  apostle,  who  was 
also  from  the  Abruzzo,  and  was  a  friend  of  the 
priest's.  There  was  that  same  Andrea  Minucci, 
who  had  been  at  the  religious  meeting  at  Subiaco. 
There  were,  also,  a  naval  officer,  who  had  a  post 
in  the  Naval  Department,  a  painter,  and  some 
others.  All  of  them  were  men  who  would  have 
sacrificed  any  earthly  affection  to  their  affection 


458  The  Saint 

for  Benedetto.  Not  one  of  them  had  believed 
any  of  the  slanderous  reports  which  had  been 
spread  concerning  him.  They  had  defended  him 
with  fierce  indignat;on,  against  their  more 
diffident  companions.  It  may  be  said  of  them, 
one  day,  that  they  were  put  to  the  proof  by 
Providence,  and  then  appointed  to  carry  on  the 
master's  work.  Di  Leyni  belonged  to  their  ranks. 
In  Giovanni  Selva  they  admired  and  respected 
the  man  admired  and  respected  by  their  master, 
but  they  stood  in  awe  of  him.  They  had  now 
been  waiting  some  time  in  the  avenue  of  orange- 
trees,  expecting  him,  for  they  were  ready  to  go 
to  the  master's  room,  as  soon  as  Signor  Giovanni 
should  arrive.  The  eyes  of  many  of  them  were 
full  of  tears.  As  the  Selvas  approached,  all  took 
off  their  hats  in  silence.  Giovanni  started  towards 
the  small  house,  followed  by  the  whole  group. 
His  wife  came  last.  One  of  the  young  men 
motioned  to  her  to  pass  on  in  front,  but  she 
would  not,  and  he  did  not  insist.  It  was  neither 
the  place  nor  the  hour  for  ceremony.  Maria  felt 
that  these  men  were  called  before  her,  to  continue 
Benedetto's  work,  after  his  death.  They  walked 
in  silence,  and  with  bare  heads,  although  it  was 
raining;  Selva  as  the  others.  Mayda  received 
them  on  the  threshold.  On  his  return  from  the 
University  he  had  heard  the  news  of  Benedetto's 
removal  to  the  small  house,  with  an  outburst 
of  wrath.  He  would  not  admit  it  to  the  sister, 
to  the  gardener,  or  to  the  servants,  but  when  he 


In  the  Whirlwind  of  God        459 

looked  at  the  list  of  temperatures,  taken  every 
half-hour,  he  was  bound  to  admit,  in  his  heart 
that  this  act  of  folly  had  had  no  sensible  effect 
upon  the  course  of  the  fever.  Upon  being  asked 
if  they  should  stay  in  the  room  only  a  short  time, 
and  endeavour  to  have  the  sick  man  speak  as 
little  as  possible,  he  answered: 

"Do  whatever  he  wishes.  It  is  the  feast  of  a 
condemned  man!  " 

He  went  up  the  wooden  stairs  before  them. 

"Your  friends,"  he  said,  entering  the  room. 
He  allowed  them  all  to  come  in,  and  then  closed 
the  door.  His  hands  clasped  behind  him,  he 
leaned  against  the  doorpost,  watching  Benedetto, 
and  the  tall,  dark  figure  never  moved  from  that 
spot  during  all  the  time  that  Benedetto  kept 
his  followers  with  him. 

Benedetto's  face  was  flushed,  his  eyes  glittered, 
and  his  breathing  was  quick.  He  greeted  his 
friends  with  a  "Thank  you!"  which  quivered 
with  happy  and  intense  excitement,  and  which 
made  some  one  sob.  Then  he  lifted  his  hand  as 
if  begging  them  to  be  quiet.  After  receiving 
the  Viaticum,  his  one  prayer  had  been  to  be  able 
to  speak  with  his  favourite  disciples,  and  that 
God  would  give  him  words  of  truth,  with  the 
strength  to  pronounce  them.  Now  he  felt  that 
the  Spirit  filled  his  breast. 

"  Come  near  to  me, "  he  said. 

The  fair-haired  youth,  his  face  stained  with 
silent  tears,  passed  before  the  others,  and  knelt 


46°  The  Saint 

beside  the  bed.  The  master  placed  his  hand  on 
the  youth's  head,  and  continued : 

"Remain  united." 

The  painful  unspoken  words  wrung  their  hearts 
still  more  cruelly,  but  each  one  felt  that  Benedetto 
was  about  to  give  forth  a  last  flicker  of  instruction, 
of  counsel,  and  they  all  checked  their  sobs. 
Benedetto's  voice  sounded,  amidst  the  deepest 
silence: 

"Pray  without  ceasing,  and  teach  others  to 
pray  without  ceasing.  This  is  the  fundamental 
principle.  When  a  man  really  loves  a  human 
being,  or  an  idea  of  his  own  mind,  his  secret 
thoughts  are  ever  clinging  to  his  love,  while  he 
is  attending  to  the  many  various  occupations  of 
his  life,  be  it  the  life  of  a  servant,  or  the  life  of  a 
king;  and  this  does  not  prevent  his  attending 
carefully  to  his  work,  for  he  has  no  need  to  speak 
many  words  to  his  love.  Men  who  are  of  the 
world  may  carry  thus  in  their  hearts  some  human 
being,  some  ideal  of  truth,  or  of  beauty.  Do  you 
always  carry  in  your  breasts  the  Father  whom 
you  have  not  seen,  but  whom  you  have  felt  as  a 
Spirit  of  love,  breathing  within  you;  a  Spirit 
which  filled  you  with  the  sweetest  desire  to  live 
for  Him.  If  you  will  do  this  your  labours  will 
be  all  alive  with  the  spirit  of  Truth." 

He  rested  a  moment,  and  looked  with  a  smile, 
at  Don  Clemente,  seated  beside  the  bed. 

"Your  words,  spoken  at  dear  Santa  Scolastica," 
he  said,  and  continued: 


In  the  Whirlwind  of  God        461 

"  Be  pure  in  your  lives,  for  otherwise  you  will 
dishonour  Christ  before  the  world.  Be  pure  in 
your  thoughts,  for  otherwise  you  will  dishonour 
Christ  before  the  spirits  of  good,  and  the  spirits 
of  evil,  which  strive  together  in  the  souls  of  all 
living  beings." 

When  he  had  spoken  these  words  he  encircled 
the  head  of  the  fair-haired  youth  with  his  arm, 
almost  as  if  to  defend  him  from  evil,  and  prayed, 
in  his  soul,  for  him  who  was,  perhaps,  his  greatest 
hope.  Then  he  resumed: 

"Be  holy.  Seek  neither  riches  nor  honours. 
Put  your  superfluous  possessions — measured  by 
the  inner  voice  of  the  Spirit — into  a  common 
fund  for  your  works  of  truth  and  of  charity. 
Give  friendly  help  to  all  the  human  suffering 
you  may  encounter;  be  meek  with  those  who 
offend  you,  who  deride  you,  and  they  will  be 
many,  even  within  the  Church  herself;  be  daunt- 
less in  the  presence  of  evil;  lend  yourselves  to 
the  necessities  of  one  another,  for  if  you  do  not 
live  thus  you  cannot  serve  the  Spirit  of  Truth. 
Live  thus,  that  the  world  may  recognise  the 
Truth  by  your  fruits,  that  your  brothers  may 
recognise  by  your  fruits  that  you  belong  to  Christ." 

Don  Clemente,  distressed  by  his  laboured 
breathing,  bent  over  him,  and,  in  a  low  voice, 
begged  him  to  rest.  Benedetto  took  his  hand,  and 
pressed  it,  and  was  silent  for  a  few  seconds.  Then 
raising  his  great  shining  eyes  to  Don  Clemente 's 
face,  he  said, 


462  The  Saint 

"Horaruit." 

And  he  resumed: 

"Let  each  one  perform  his  religious  duties  as 
the  Church  prescribes,  according  to  strict  justice 
and  with  perfect  obedience.  Do  not  give  your 
union  a  name,  or  speak  collectively,  or  draw  up 
rules,  beyond  those  I  have  dictated.  Love  one 
another,  love  is  enough.  Communicate  with 
one  another.  Many  are  doing  the  same  work 
in  the  Church  for  which  you  are  preparing  your- 
selves, through  the  moral  preparations  I  have 
prescribed  for  you;  I  mean  the  work  of  purifying 
the  faith,  and  imbuing  life  with  the  purified 
faith.  Honour  them  and  learn  from  them,  but 
do  not  allow  them  to  become  members  of  your 
union  unless  they  come  to  you  of  their  own  free 
will,  and  pour  their  superfluity  into  the  common 
fund.  This  shall  be  the  sign  that  they  are  sent 
unto  you  by  God." 

Here  Benedetto  paused,  and  gently  begged 
Giovanni  Selva  to  come  nearer. 

"I  wish  to  see  you,"  he  said.  "What  I  have 
said  and,  above  all,  what  I  am  going  to  say,  was 
born  of  you." 

He  stretched  out  his  hand,  and  taking  Don 
Clemente's  hand,  he  added: 

"The  Father  knows  it.  Each  should  feel 
God's  presence  within  himself,  but  each  should 
feel  it  also  in  the  other,  and  I  feel  it  so  strongly 
in  you.  Yes, "  he  continued,  turning  to  Don 
Clemente,  as  if  appealing  to  his  authority,  "this 


In  the  Whirlwind  of  God        463 

is  the  true  foundation  of  human  fraternity,  and 
therefore  those  who  love  their  fellow  men  and 
believe  they  are  cold  toward  God  are  nearer 
the  Kingdom  than  many  who  imagine  they  love 
God,  but  who  do  not  love  their  fellow-men." 

The  young  priest  who  was  standing,  almost 
timidly,  behind  Selva,  exclaimed,  "Oh!  yes, 
yes!  "  Selva  bowed  his  head  with  a  sigh.  The 
tall,  dark  figure  leaning  against  the  doorpost 
did  not  move,  but  the  gaze  fixed  on  Benedetto 
became  inexpressibly  intense,  tender  and  sad. 

Don  Clemente  again  bent  over  the  invalid, 
entreating  him  to  pause  a  moment,  and  the  sister 
also  begged  him  to  rest.  Neither  Mayda  nor  any 
of  the  disciples  spoke.  Benedetto  drank  a  little 
water,  thanked  the  sister,  and  began  to  speak 
once  more : 

"Purify  the  faith  for  grown  men,  who  cannot 
thrive  on  the  food  of  infants.  This  part  of  your 
work  is  for  those  who  are  outside  the  Church, 
whether  they  belong  to  her  by  name  or  not — 
for  those  with  whom  you  will  be  constantly  min- 
gling. Work  to  glorify  the  idea  of  God,  worship- 
ping above  all  things,  and  teaching  that  there 
is  no  truth  which  is  opposed  to  God  or  to  His 
laws.  But  be  equally  cautious  that  the  infants 
do  not  approach  their  lips  to  the  food  for  grown 
men.  Be  not  offended  by  an  impure  faith,  an 
imperfect  faith,  when  the  life  is  pure  and  the 
conscience  upright;  for  in  comparison  with  the 
infinite  depths  of  God,  there  is  little  difference 


464  The  Saint 

between  your  faith  and  the  faith  of  a  simple, 
humble  woman,  and  if  the  woman's  conscience 
be  upright,  and  her  life  pure,  you  will  not  pass 
before  her  in  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven.  Never 
publish  writings  concerning  difficult  religious 
questions,  for  sale,  but  rather  distribute  them 
with  prudence,  and  never  put  your  name  to  them. 
"Labour  that  the  purified  faith  may  penetrate 
into  life.  This  labour  is  for  those  who  are  in  the 
Church, — and  for  those  who  wish  to  be  in  the 
Church, — and  their  name  is  legion,  they  are  infinite 
in  number;  for  those  who  really  believe  in  the 
dogmas,  and  would  gladly  believe  in  more  dogmas, 
who  really  believe  in  the  miracles,  and  are  glad 
to  believe  in  more  miracles,  but  who  do  not  really 
believe  in  the  Beatitudes,  who  say  to  Christ, 
' Lord,  Lord! '  but  who  think  it  would  be  too  hard 
to  do  all  His  will,  and  who  have  not  even  zeal 
enough  to  search  for  Him  in  the  Holy  Book; 
who  do  not  know  that  religion  is,  above  all  things, 
action  and  life.  Teach  such  as  these  who  pray 
abundantly,  often  idolatrously,  to  practise,  besides 
the  prayers  which  are  prescribed,  the  mystic 
prayer  as  well,  in  which  is  the  purest  faith,  the 
most  perfect  hope,  the  most  perfect  charity, 
which  in  itself  purifies  the  soul  and  purifies  life. 
Do  I  tell  you  to  take,  publicly,  the  place  of  the 
pastors?  No;  let  each  one  work  in  his  own 
family,  each  one  among  his  own  friends,  and 
those  who  can,  with  the  pen.  Thus  you  will  till 
the  soil  from  which  the  pastors  arise. 


In  the  Whirlwind  of  God         465 

"My  sons,  I  do  not  promise  you  that  you  will 
renew  the  world.  You  will  labour  in  the  night- 
time, without  visible  gain,  like  Peter  and  his 
companions  on  the  Sea  of  Galilee.  But,  at  last, 
Christ  will  come,  and  then  your  gain  shall  be  great. " 

He  was  silent,  praying  for  his  disciples,  sighing 
in  the  prescience  of  much  suffering  to  come  to 
them  from  many  enemies  of  many  kinds.  Then 
he  pronounced  the  last  words: 

"Later,  give  me  your  prayers;  now,  your  kiss." 

The  disciples,  with  one  voice,  begged  him  to 
bless  them.  He  sought  to  avoid  this,  saying  he 
did  not  feel  himself  worthy. 

"  I  am  only  the  poor  blind  man,  whose  eyes 
Christ  has  opened  with  clay." 

Don  Clemente  did  not  appear  to  have  heard- 
He  knelt  down  saying, 

"Bless  me,  also!" 

With  humble  obedience  Benedetto  laid  his  hand 
on  Don  Clemente's  head,  said  the  words  of  the 
ritual  benediction,  and  kissed  him.  He  did  the 
same  with  all  the  others,  one  by  one.  Each  one 
seemed  to  feel  the  breath  of  the  Spirit  flowing 
into  him  from  that  hand.  When  the  priest's 
turn  came,  he  murmured: 

"Master,  and  to  us?" 

The  dying  man  composed  himself  and  replied: 

"Be  poor,  live  in  poverty.     Be  perfect.     Take 

no   pleasure   in   titles   nor   in   proud   vestments, 

neither  in   personal   authority   nor  in   collective 

authority.     Love    those    who    hate    you;    avoid 

30 


4°6  The  Saint 

factions;  make  peace  in  God's  name;  accept  no 
civil  office;  do  not  tyrannise  over  souls,  nor  seek 
to  control  them  too  much;  do  not  train  priests 
artificially;  pray  that  you  may  be  many,  but  do 
not  fear  to  be  few;  do  not  think  you  need  much 
human  knowledge, — you  need  only  much  respect 
for  reason  and  much  faith  in  the  universal  and 
inseparable  Truth." 

The  last  to  come  forward  was  Maria  Selva. 
She  knelt  at  a  short  distance  from  the  bed.  The 
sick  man  smiled  at  her,  and  motioned  to  her  to 
rise. 

"  I  have  already  blessed  you  in  your  husband," 
said  he.  "  I  cannot  distinguish  you.  You  are  a 
part  of  his  soul.  You  are  his  courage.  Let 
this  courage  increase  in  the  painful  hours  which 
await  him.  And,  together,  may  you  be  the 
poetry  of  Christian  love,  until  the  end.  Stay 
here  a  little  while,  both  of  you." 

As  the  disciples  passed  out,  the  room  grew 
darker.  The  rumbling  of  thunder  was  heard, 
and  the  sister  went  to  close  the  window.  First, 
however,  she  glanced  into  the  garden,  and  ex- 
claimed, "Poor  things!"  Benedetto  heard,  and 
wished  to  know  what  she  meant.  He  was  told 
that  the  garden  was  full  of  people  who  had  come 
to  see  him,  and  that  a  heavy  shower  was  threaten- 
ing. He  begged  the  Selvas  to  wait,  and  the 
Professor  to  allow  the  people  to  enter. 

A   heavy   trampling   sounded   on   the  narrow 


In  the  Whirlwind  of  God         467 

wooden  stairs.  The  door  was  thrown  open, 
and  several  persons  entered  on  tiptoe.  In  a 
moment  the  room  was  full.  A  crowd  of  bare 
heads  peered  in  at  the  door.  No  one  spoke;  all 
were  gazing  at  Benedetto,  and  they  were  reverent 
and  respectful.  Benedetto  greeted  them  with 
both  hands,  with  widespread  arms. 

"I  thank  you,"  he  said.  "Pray,  as  I  have 
surely  taught  some  of  you  to  do.  And  may  God 
be  with  you  always!  " 

A  big,  stout  man  answered,  his  face  crimson: 

"We  will  pray,  but  you  are  not  going  to  die. 
Don't  believe  that.  But  please  give  us  your 
blessing." 

"Yes,  give  us  your  blessing,  give  us  your 
blessing!"  was  repeated  by -many  voices. 

Meanwhile,  from  the  narrow  stairway  the 
impatient  voices  could  be  heard  of  those  who 
wished  to  come  up,  and  could  not.  Benedetto 
said  something  in  an  undertone  to  Don  Clemente. 
Don  Clemente  ordered  those  present  to  file  past 
the  bed  and  then  leave  the  room,  that  the  others 
might  do  the  same. 

One  by  one  they  all  passed.  They  were  poor 
people  from  the  Testaccio — workmen,  clerks 
from  shops,  women  who  sold  fruit,  pedlars  and 
beggars.  From  time  to  time  Benedetto  said  a 
word  of  dismissal,  in  a  tired  voice:  "Addio."- 
"  Farewell." — "Pray  for  me.  " — "We  shall  meet  in 
Paradise." — Some  in  passing  silently  bent  the 
knee,  others  touched  the  bed  and  then  made 


468  The  Saint 

the  sign  of  the  cross.  Some  begged  him  to  pray 
for  them  or  for  their  dear  ones,  while  others  called 
down  blessings  upon  him.  One  asked  to  be  for- 
given because  he  had  believed  the  slanderers, 
and  at  that  a  series  of  "  Forgive  me  also,  me  also!  " 
sounded.  The  hunchback  from  Via  della  Mar- 
morata  was  there,  and  began  telling  him  amidst 
her  tears  that  the  old  priest  had  confessed; 
and  would  have  liked  to  tell  him  all  her  gratitude, 
had  not  those  behind  her  pushed  her  away,  and 
taken  her  from  the  sight  of  him  for  ever.  Many 
passed  thus  before  him  for  the  last  time,  and,  weep- 
ing, went  from  him  forever, — many  he  had  com- 
forted in  body  and  in  mind.  He  recognised  some, 
and  greeted  them  with  a  gesture.  On  they  passed, 
often  turning  their  tearful  faces  back  towards  him. 
The  stream  that  passed  down  brushed  against  the 
stream  that  passed  up  the  narrow  stairs,  and  gave 
them  their  impressions  of  the  sorrowful  room 
in  advance: — "Ah!  what  a  face." — "Ah!  what 
a  voice!"— "Good  God!  he  is  dying!"— "He  is 
one  of  God's  angels !"—" You  will  see!"— "He 
has  Paradise  in  his  eyes! "  And  not  a  few  were 
murmuring  curses  against  the  wretches  who  had 
slandered  him;  not  a  few  spoke,  with  a  shudder, 
of  poison,  or  murder.  Dio! — He  had  been  taken 
away  by  the  police,  and  had  returned  in  this 
state.  A  mournful,  continuous  rumbling  of 
thunder,  and  the  loud  steady  splash  of  the  rain, 
drowned  both  the  sorrowful  and  the  angry 
whisperings. 


In  the  Whirlwind  of  God         469 

When  the  stream  of  people  had  ceased  to  flow 
out,  Mayda  had  the  window  opened,  for  the  air 
had  become  vitiated.  Benedetto  asked  them  to 
raise  his  head  a  little.  He  wanted  to  see  the 
great  pine-tree,  with  its  top  bending  towards  the 
Ccelian  Hill.  The  dark  green  crown  of  the  pine 
cleft  the  stormy  sky.  He  gazed  at  it  a  long  time. 
When  his  head  was  resting  on  the  pillow  once 
more,  he  motioned  to  Don  Clemente  to  bend 
down  to  him,  and  whispered  almost  into  his  ear: 

"  Do  you  know,  when  they  brought  me  here  from 
the  villa  I  longed  to  be  laid  under  the  pine-tree, 
which  we  see  from  the  window,  so  that  I  might 
die  there.  But  I  thought  at  once  that  this  was 
something  too  strongly  desired,  and  that  it  was 
not  good.  And  besides, "  he  added,  smiling, 
"after  all  the  habit  would  have  been  missing." 

A  slight  movement  of  Don  Clemente's  lips 
revealed  to  him  that  he  had  brought  the  habit  with 
him  from  Subiaco.  Benedetto  experienced  a 
great  wave  of  intense  inward  emotion.  He  clasped 
his  hands,  and  remained  silent  as  long  as  the 
inward  struggle  was  going  on,  the  struggle 
between  the  desire  that  the  vision  might  be 
fulfilled,  and  the  consciousness  that  its  fulfilment 
could  not  come  about  naturally.  He  concen- 
trated his  mind  in  an  act  of  abnegation  to  the 
Divine  Will. 

"The  Lord  wishes  me  to  die  here,"  he  said. 
"But  still  he  permits  me,  at  least,  to  have  the 
habit  on  my  bed,  before  I  die." 


470  The  Saint 

Don  Clemente  bent  over  him,  and  kissed  his 
forehead. 

Meanwhile  the  Selvas  were  waiting  a  little  way 
off.  Benedetto  called  them  to  him,  and  told 
them  that  he  would  receive  Signora  Dessalle  in 
half  an  hour,  but  he  begged  her  not  to  come  alone. 
She  might  come  with  them.  Mayda  went  out 
with  the  Selvas.  The  sister  was  dozing.  Then 
Benedetto  asked  Don  Clemente  to  go  to  the 
Pontiff,  afterwards,  and  to  tell  him  that  the  end 
of  the  vision  had  not  been  fulfilled,  that  thus  all 
that  had  seemed  miraculous  in  his  life  had  van- 
ished and  that  before  his  death  he  had  felt  the 
sweetness  of  the  Pope's  blessing. 

"And  tell  him,"  he  added,  "that  I  hope  to 
speak  in  his  heart  again." 

His  breathing  was  less  laboured,  but  his  voice 
was  growing  weaker,  and  his  strength  was  going 
with  the  fever.  Don  Clemente  took  his  wrist 
and  held  it  for  some  time.  Then  he  rose. 

"Are  you  going  for  the  habit?"  Benedetto 
murmured,  with  a  sweet  smile.  The  Padre's 
handsome  face  flushed.  He  quickly  conquered 
the  human  sentiment  which  prompted  him  to 
prevaricate,  and  replied: 

"Yes,  caro,  I  think  the  hour  is  come." 

"What  time  is  it?" 

"Half-past  five." 

"  Do  you  think  it  will  be  at  seven?     At  eight?" 

"  No,  not  so  soon,  but  I  want  you  to  have  this 
consolation  at  once." 


In  the  Whirlwind  of  God        471 

In  a  small  sitting-room  at  the  villa,  Giovanni 
Selva,  after  consulting  his  watch,  said  to  his  wife, 

"Go,  now." 

It  had  been  arranged  that  Maria  and  Noemi 
should  accompany  Jeanne  to  see  Benedetto.  Noemi 
stretched  out  her  hands  to  her  brother-in-law. 

"Giovanni,"  she  said,  trembling,  "I  have  some 
news  to  give  him  concerning  my  soul.  Do  not  be 
offended  if  I  tell  him  first." 

Jeanne  guessed  the  nature  of  the  news  Noemi 
had  for  the  dying  man :  her  conversion  to  Catholi- 
cism, in  the  near  future.  All  the  strength  she  had 
gathered  in  herself  for  the  supreme  moment  now 
forsook  her.  She  embraced  Noemi,  and  burst 
into  tears.  The  Selvas  strove  to  encourage  her, 
mistaking  the  cause  of  her  tears.  Between  her 
sobs  she  entreated  them  to  go,  to  go;  she  herself 
could  not  possibly  go.  Only  Noemi  understood. 
Jeanne  would  not  come  because  she  had  guessed, 
because  she  could  not  do  the  same.  She  besought 
her,  she  entreated  her,  and  whispered  to  her, 
holding  her  in  an  embrace:  "Why  will  you  not 
yield,  at  this  moment?  " 

Jeanne,  still  sobbing,  answered, 

"Ah!  you  understand  me!  "  And  because  No- 
emi protested  that  now  she  would  not  go,  it 
was  Jeanne's  turn  to  entreat  her  to  do  so,  to  go  at 
once;  not  to  delay  giving  him  this  consolation. 
She,  herself,  could  not  go,  could  not,  could  not! 
It  was  impossible  to  move  her.  A  servant  came  to 
call  Selva.  Maria  and  Noemi  went  out. 


472  The  Saint 

When  she  was  alone  Jeanne  was  tempted,  for 
a  moment,  to  hasten  after  them,  to  yield,  to  go 
also,  and  say  the  joyful  word  to  him.  She  fell 
upon  her  knees,  and  stretched  out  her  arms, 
almost  as  if  he  were  standing  before  her,  and 
sobbed:  "Dear  one,  dear  one!  How  could  I 
deceive  you?"  She  had  often  struggled  against 
her  own  unbelief,  and  always  in  vain.  A  surrender 
to  faith  through  sudden  impulse  would  not  be 
lasting,  that  she  knew. 

"  Why  will  you  not  have  me  alone? "  she  groaned 
again,  still  on  her  knees.  "  Why  will  you  not  have 
me  alone?  That  pious  consciences  may  not  be 
scandalised?  That  my  despair  may  not  trouble 
you?  Why  will  you  not  have  me  alone?  How 
can  I  say,  before  them,  what  is  within  me?  You 
who  are  gentle  as  your  Lord  Jesus,  why  will  you 
not  have  me  alone?  Oh!" 

She  started  to  her  feet,  convinced  that  if  Piero 
heard  her,  he  would  answer,  "Yes,  come!" 
She  stood  a  moment  as  if  turned  to  stone,  her 
hands  pressed  to  her  forehead;  then  she  moved 
slowly,  like  one  walking  in  her  sleep,  left  the  room, 
crossed  the  hall  and  went  down  into  the  gar- 
den. 

It  was  raining  so  hard,  the  sky,  still  rent  from 
time  to  time  by  lightning,  was  so  dark,  that  al- 
though it  was  not  yet  seven  o'clock,  on  that 
February  evening  it  seemed  almost  like  night. 
Just  as  she  was,  with  bare  head,  Jeanne  went  out 
into  the  cold  and  streaming  rain.  Without 


In  the  Whirlwind  of  God        473 

h? stening  her  steps,  she  took,  not  the  avenue 
of  orange- trees  on  the  right,  but  the  path  which, 
on  the  left,  leads  downwards,  between  two  rows 
of  great  agaves,  to  a  little  grove  of  laurels,  cy- 
presses and  olives,  to  which  roses  cling.  She 
passed  the  great  pine  that  looks  towards  the  Coelian 
and  winding  down,  on  the  right  by  a  long  curve 
of  paths,  she  reached  the  spring  which  an  ancient 
sarcophagus  receives  on  the  steep  slope,  within 
a  belt  of  myrtles,  a  few  steps  below  the  gardener's 
little  house.  Here  she  stopped.  A  window  in 
the  little  house  was  lit  up ;  surely  that  was  Piero's 
window.  A  shadow  flitted  across  it — perhaps 
that  was  Noemi!  Jeanne  sat  down  on  the  marble 
rim  of  the  basin.  Would  it  be  possible  to  drown 
in  that?  Would  she  try  to  die,  if  it  were  not  for 
Carlino?  Vain  speculations!  She  did  not  linger 
over  them.  She  waited,  and  waited  in  the  cold 
rain,  her  eyes  and  her  soul  fixed  on  the  lighted 
window.  Other  shadows  passed.  Were  they 
going  now?  Yes,  perhaps  Maria  and  Noemi  were 
going,  but  they  would  not  leave  Piero  alone. 
Mayda  would  be  there;  the  Benedictine  and  the 
sister  would  be  there.  Well,  at  least,  she  would 
try.  A  hurried  footstep  in  the  avenue  of  orange- 
trees;  some  one  was  going  towards  the  gardener's 
house.  Jeanne,  who  had  risen,  sat  down  again. 
Now  the  unknown  person  entered.  More  shadows 
at  the  window.  Two  people  came  out,  in  animated 
conversation — the  voices  of  the  Professor  and  of 
Giovanni  Selva.  They  seemed  to  be  speaking  of 


474  The  Saint 

some  one  who  had  come  for  news.  Others  came 
out.  The  water  from  the  eaves  dripped  on  their 
umbrellas.  It  must  be  Maria  and  Noemi.  Jeanne 
once  more  rose,  and  started  forward. 

She  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  little  house, 
and  saw  people  in  the  gardener's  kitchen.  She 
asked  a  girl  to  go  up-stairs  and  see  who  was  with 
the  sick  man.  The  girl  hesitated,  demurred  at 
first,  but  finally  went,  and  came  down  again 
immediately.  The  priest  and  the  sister  were 
in  the  room.  Jeanne  asked  for  a  piece  of 
paper,  a  pencil,  and  a  light.  She  began  to 
write. 

"Padre — I  appeal — "  She  stopped  and  lis- 
tened. Someone  was  coming  down  the  wooden 
stair.  A  man's  step,  therefore  it  must  be  the 
Padre.  Then  she  would  speak  to  him.  She 
threw  aside  the  pencil,  and  went  to  meet  him 
on  the  stairs.  It  was  dark,  and  Don  Clemente 
mistook  her  for  Maria  Selva. 

"He  is  quiet,"  the  Benedictine  said,  before  she 
could  speak.  "He  seems  to  be  asleep.  What 
your  sister  told  him  did  him  so  much  good! 
The  Professor  thinks  he  will  live  through  the 
night.  Send  for  the  other  lady.  He  has  asked 
for  her.  I  thought  you  had  already  gone  for 
her." 

Jeanne  was  dumb.  She  stepped  aside.  With 
an  "Excuse  me"  he  passed  her  without  looking 
at  her,  and  entered  the  kitchen,  to  ask  for  a  little 
bread  and  some  water,  for  he  had  been  fasting 


In  the  Whirlwind  of  God        475 

since  the  night  before.  Jeanne  was  trembling 
like  a  leaf.  He  had  asked  for  her!  The  words 
and  the  opportunity  thus  offered  made  her  dizzy. 
Noiselessly  she  mounted  the  stairs.  Noiselessly 
she  pushed  the  door  open.  The  sister  saw  her, 
and  started  to  rise.  She  signed  to  her,  her  finger 
on  her  lips,  not  to  move,  and  noiselessly  ap- 
proached the  bed.  She  saw  a  long,  black  some- 
thing spread  upon  it,  over  the  quilt,  and  stopped, 
horrified,  not  understanding.  A  faint  groan. 
The  man  on  the  bed  raised  his  right  hand  with  a 
vague  gesture,  as  if  in  search  of  something.  The 
sister  rose,  but  Jeanne,  moving  more  swiftly, 
rushed  to  the  pillow,  and  bent  over  Piero, 
who  had  begun  to  groan  again  and  move  his 
hand. 

Jeanne  questioned  him  anxiously,  but  he  did 
not  answer.  He  only  groaned  and  looked  at 
something  beside  the  bed.  Jeanne  offered  him 
a  glass  of  water,  but  he  shook  his  head.  She  was 
in  despair  because  she  could  not  understand. 
Ah!  the  Crucifix!  the  Crucifix!  The  sister  lifted 
the  light  from  the  ground;  Jeanne  held  out  the 
Crucifix  to  Piero,  who,  pressing  his  lips  to  it, 
gazed  at  her,  gazed  at  her  with  those  great  glassy 
eyes,  from  which  death  looked  forth.  The  sister 
gave  a  cry  and  ran  to  call  the  Padre.  Piero  gazed 
and  gazed  at  Jeanne.  With  a  great  effort,  he 
clasped  the  Crucifix  in  both  hands,  and  raised  it 
towards  her.  His  lips  moved,  moved  again,  but 
no  sound  came  from  them.  Jeanne  took  Piero's 


476  The  Saint 

hands  between  her  own,  and  pressed  a  passionate 
kiss  upon  the  Crucifix.  Then  he  closed  his  eyes. 
A  smile  broke  across  his  face. 

His  head  drooped  a  little  towards  his  right 
shoulder.     He  moved  no  more. 


THE  END. 


A  Selection  from  the 
Catalogue  of 

C.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


Complete    Catalogues    sent 
on  application 


"  Signer  Fogazzaro  is  at  the  present  moment  undoubtedly 
the  greatest  of  Italian  novelists.  His  nobility  of  feeling, 
his  wide  sympathy,  his  kindliness  and  breezy  humor  en- 
title him  to  a  high  place  among  writers  of  fiction." — 

From  Villari's  "  Italian  Life." 


The  Trilogy  of  Rome 

BY 
ANTONIO  FOGAZZARO 


The  Patriot 

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fiercest."     The  book  is  a  wonderful  portrayal  of  the  social  life  of 
the  period. 


The  Sinner 

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An  impassioned  love  story  involving  faithful  pictures  of  the  life  of 
the  Italian  world  of  fashion  and  introducing  the  character  that 
becomes  the  central  figure  of  The  Saint. 


The  Saint 

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"An  exceptional,  remarkable,  profoundly  interesting  work.  It 
is  eloquent  with  intense  earnestness,  with  a  deep-rooted  sense  of 
a  duty  to  perform,  a  fervent  message  to  deliver.  You  lay  it  aside 
with  an  abiding  sense  of  having  read  something  eminently  worth 
while,  something  very  genuine  and  sincere." — The  Bookman, 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 


-work  of  absorbing  interest " 


THE  SOCIALIST 

BY  GUY  THORNE 

Author   of 
"WHEN  IT  WAS  DARK,"  "A  LOST  CAUSE."  ETC. 

"  A  story  that  leads  one  on  by  its  boldness,  its 
vigours,  its  interesting  realism  of  both  ducal  splen- 
dour and  evil  squalor,  and  by  the  individual  interests 
it  attaches  to  social  phases  and  problems.  The 
Socialist  contains  plenty  of  dramatic  description  and 
intensely  studied  character  to  remind  one  of  When 
it  Was  Dark  and  other  well  staged  and  effectively 
managed  story-dramas  from  the  same  busy  and 
clever  pen." — The  Dundee  Advertiser. 

"  A  work  of  absorbing  interest  dealing  with  one 
of  the  burning  questions  of  the  day  in  a  manner 
alike  entertaining  and  instructive.  Mr.  Thorne 
has  taken  considerable  pains  to  explain  the  real 
meaning  of  Socialism  as  understood  and  taught  by 
leaders  of  what  may  be  styled  the  higher  Social 
movement.  We  congratulate  the  author  on  having 
produced  a  first-class  novel  full  of  feeling  and 
character,  and  with  an  eminently  useful  mission." 
—  The  Irish  Independent. 

Crmvn  8vo.     Fixed  price,  $1.35  net 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 


"A  work  of  rare  and  exceptional  quality" 

TOIL  OF  MEN 

(MENSCHENWEE) 

By  ISRAEL  QUERIDO 

In  praise  of  Querido's  Menschenwee,  a  novel  that 
recalls  both  the  work  of  Balzac  and  of  Zola,  the 
authoritative  critical  journals  of  Europe  have  spoken 
with  one  voice. 

To  refrain  from  superlatives  in  speaking  of  Men- 
schenwee  would  be  an  impertinent  recalcitrancy  to  the 
critical  judgment  of  Europe.  Let  us  hasten  then  to 
assert  that  this  great  and  impassioned  novel,  bringing 
together  a  wide  range  of  characters — mostly  toilers 
who  live  close  to  the  soil — and  making  us  live  by 
sympathy  the  hard  life  of  the  fields,  combines  a  con- 
vincing and  relentless  realistic  observation  with  the 
true  sympathetic  method  of  the  idealist.  In  imagina- 
tive 'and  creative  power,  in  the  masterly  descriptive 
faculty  everywhere  evinced,  in  its  compelling  dra- 
matic interest,  in  its  surprising  blend  of  conflicting 
passions  and  sentiments,  alike  by  its  hate,  raillery, 
irony,  and  indignation,  by  its  tenderness,  pity,  and 
melancholy,  Menschenwee  has  been  hailed  as  a  work 
of  rare  and  exceptional  quality,  that  is  entitled  to 
hold  the  attention  of  thinkers  and  lovers  of  literature 
the  world  over. 

Querido,  the  author  of  the  novel,  is  a  native  of 
Amsterdam,  and  comes  of  a  titled  Portuguese  family 
long  settled  in  that  city.  The  ardor  of  his  tempera- 
ment, his  culture,  his  learning,  the  strength  of  his 
intellect,  and  the  range  of  his  sympathies  entitle  him 
to  the  place  he  now  holds  in  the  world  of  letters. 

Authorized  Translation.     Crown  6vo,    $1,50 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 


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